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THIS,  THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  EDI- 
TION OF  DEADLOCK  CONSISTS  OF 
ONE  THOUSAND  COPIES  OF  WHICH 
SEVEN  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  ARE 
FOR  SALE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 
AND  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY 
IN  CANADA  AND  ONE  HUNDRED 
FOR  PRESENTATION.  THIS  IS 
NUMBER     2  5 


DEADLOCK 


NOVELS  BY 
DOROTHY  M.  RICHARDSON 

J-  $  mi,  thtf  ntvtls  shtw  au  art  and  mtthtd 
and  ftrm  carritd  to  functilhui  frfutitn." 

— Mar  Sinclair. 

DEADLOCK 

INTERIM 
THE  TUNNEL 
HONEYCOMB 
BACKWATER 
POINTED  ROOFS 


NEW  YORK,  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


DEADLOCK 


By  DOROTHY  M.  RICHARDSON 

WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY  WILSON  FOLLETT 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OT    AMERICA 


o  FOREWORD  BY  WILSON  FOLLETT 

\>         The  publication  of  "Deadlock"  brings  the  career  of 

>      a  most  arresting  and  significant  novelist  to  the,  point  at 
-^      which  it  becomes  possible,  if  not  imperative,  to  add 
O     something  to  what  Mr.  J.  D.  Beresford  wrote,  some 
six  years  ago,  in  his  wholly  admirable  Foreword  to 
"Pointed  Roofs."     That  career,  here  defined  by  an- 
other milestone,  has  proceeded  thus  far,  through  con- 
siderable stages  of  growth,  to  be  sure,  but  without 
essential  change  of  direction.     It  has  also  become — 
9    what,  for  all  I  know.  Miss  Richardson  herself  might 
•   humorously  deprecate  the  notion  of  its  being — a  sub- 
£^    stantial  Force, 

Somehow,  I  cannot  imagine  this  writer  as  attaching 
much  importance  to  the  concept  of  herself  as  a  con- 
temporary and  future  influence.  She  is  all  for  think- 
ing with  one's  nerves;  for  seizing,  with  sensitive  deli- 
cacy of  intuition,  the  immediate  quintessence  of  things 
as  they  are  in  themselves — not  the  ultimate  effect  of 
things  as  they  are  in  their  implications.  She  once 
made  her  recurring  character,  Miriam  Henderson — a 
being  whom  I  choose,  without  argument,  to  identify 
with  certain  past  phases  of  the  novelist's  own  con- 
sciousness— deliver  several  pages  of  really  fruitful 
speculation  on  the  ultimate  function  of  the  novel. 
The  upshot  of  all  that  speculation  was  just  this:  that  a 
novel  exists  to  give  you,  its  reader,  not  puppets,  not 
places,  not  situations,  not  dramatic  contretemps,  not 
atmosphere,   and  most   assuredly  not  ideas  or   argu- 


DEADLOCK 

ments,  but,  simply  and  solely,  the  novelist.  If  you  as 
a  reader  penetrate  through  the  show  to  the  showman; 
if,  feeling  your  way  inerrantly  among  the  machinery 
and  the  details  of  his  spectacle,  you  arrive  at  a  thrilling 
and  life-giving  apprehension  of  the  author's  personality 
as  it  is^in  its  nuances,  as  it  is  in  its  inalienable  differ- 
ences, as  it  is  in  itself — then  you  are  a  real  reader,  you 
know  what  fiction  is  for,  you  have  got  out  of  it  the 
utmost,  that  it  has  to  give. 

It  is,  I  suppose,  incontestable  that  Miss  Richard- 
son's own  six  volumes  are  so  written  as  to  facilitate 
precisely  that  sort  of  apprehension  by  her  readers. 
The  leverage  which  she  wishes  to  exert  upon  them  is 
that  of  the  unique  personality  intimately  grasped,  with- 
out reference  to  such  irrelevant  affairs  as  literary  forms 
or  formulae,  tendencies,  philosophies,  schools,  aesthetic 
canons  and  traditions.  In  short,  what  she  is  trying 
to  communicate  is  the  most  desperately  generous  of 
all  gifts  —  the  gift  of  herself.  That  is  why,  I  sus- 
pect, she  would  be  indifferent  to  any  attempt  to  esti- 
mate her  bearings  on  the  contemporary  fictional  scene 
as  a  whole.  The  effort  to  "place"  her,  she  would 
almost  necessarily  construe  as  an  effort  to  dispose  of 
her  altogether,  and  on  the  cheapest  terms  —  to  reject 
her  on  the  one  ground  on  which  she  offers  herself,  while 
accepting  her  on  grounds  wholly  foreign  to  her  mind 
and  purpose.  The  logical  outcome  of  any  such  process 
she  would  doubtless  see  as  an  identification  of  her  des- 
tiny with  that  of  the  forlorn  classics  by  which  we  are 
all  influenced,  whether  we  have  read  them  or  not. 
She  might  even  add  that  to  be  imitated  is  the  last 
unbearable  evidence  of  failure,  since  the  sole  accom- 
plishment to  which  she  has  ever  aspired  is  one  which 
must  remain  inimitable. 

— vi — 


DEADLOCK 

Nevertheless,  it  is  precisely  of  Miss  Richardson  as 
a  Force,  as  a  cognizable  influence  which  begins  to  have 
its  day  and  its  way,  that  one  must  speak  if  one  is  to 
add  anything  to  Mr.  Beresford's  earlier  Foreword. 
That  declaration  —  a  realist's  appraisal,  on  realistic 
g'rounds,  of  another  realist  —  still  iholdsi  good  for 
what  it  purports  to  be.  But  meanwhile  the  author  of 
"Pointed, Roofs"  has  got  herself  into  the  clutches  of 
history — an  achievement  entailing  rewards  and,  if  you 
insist,  penalties.  And  this  is  a  fact  which  can  be  re- 
ported without  convicting  the  reporter  of  stupidity 
as  to  the  inwardness  of  the  author's  intention.  It  is 
merely  an  additional  and  supplementary  fact,  which, 
to  be  sure,  must  not  be  offered  in  lieu  of  appreciation, 
but  which  may  nevertheless,  from  its  own  angle  and 
on  its  own  premises,  have  a  capital  value. 

What,  now  —  to  proceed  on  this  basis  —  have  been 
the  measurable  effects  of  the  five  volumes  from 
"Pointed  Roofs"  to  "The  Tunnel"?  No  fictional 
performance  of  our  time  has  been  anything  ,like  so 
queerly  esoteric,  judged  by  the  prevailing  standards — 
that  is  to  say,  habits — of  writers  and  readers.  Yet 
no  recent  accomplishment  in  the  novel  has  left  its  im- 
press more  deeply  and  Jndelibly  along  the  trail  of 
fiction  in  this  decade.  The  sequence  begun  with 
"Pointed  Roofs"  is  every  bit  as  bizarre,  superficially 
considered,  as  "Tristram  Shandy";  it  has  made  less 
clatter,  in  the  world  than  some  moron's  latest  volume 
of  gibberish  in  aborted  prose  masquerading  as  vers 
libre;  and  yet  its  place  in  the  evolution  of  the  novel  is 
already  so  inexpugnable  that  a  clever  historian  could 
infer  its  existence  without  ever  having  heard  of  it,  as 
astronomers  calculate  the  mass  of  an  invisible  star  to 
explain  the  behaviour  of  visible  bodies.     Explain,  if 

— vii — 


DEADLOCK 

you  can,  without  Miss  Richardson  and  her  narrative 
method,  the  symptoms  that  began  to  dominate  Miss 
May  Sinclair  in  "Mary  Oliver."  A  like  process  of 
gravitation  has  been  at  work  on  the  remarkably  virile 
talent  of,  Mrs.  C.  A.  Dawson-Scott,  and  on  the  as 
remarkably  feminine  one  of  Clemence  Dane.  It  is 
doubtful  if  Mr.  Beresford  himself  has  remained  quite 
unaffected.  And  the  very  startling  recent  aberration 
of  Miss  Mary  Johnston  from  her  orbit  is  difficult  to 
understand  except  as  the  resultant  of  a  cross-pull  be- 
tween inherent  neurotic  religiosity  and  the  direct  or 
indirect  influence  of  the  author  of  "Pilgrimage." 
One  finds  Miss  Richardson  everywhere  nowadays. 
Her  very  gesture  shows  in  pages  written  by  imitators 
of  imitations  of  her  imitators.  Dorothy  Richardson 
is  as  authentic  as  expression  of  something  that,  histori- 
cally speaking,  had  to  be  as  Samuel  Richardson  was; 
and  Miriam's  literary  progeny  are  like  to  become  as 
numerous  as  Pamela's. 

This  something  which  had  to  be  expressed,  and  of 
which  her  work  was  the  first  definitive  expression  in  the 
English  novel,  was  no  less  a  portent  than  the  whole 
self-tortured  modern  consciousness,  together  with  the 
precise  idiom  in  which  it  does  its  thinking.  Miss 
Richardson  partly  invented,  and  partly  adapted  from 
the  Imagist  poets^ — who,  in  turn,  stem  from  post-im- 
pressionism in  the  plastic  arts — the  language  in  which 
it  should  be  expressed.  She  was  the  first  to  begin  a 
step  beyond  the  project — carried  by  Henry  James  to 
the  ultimate  attainable  proficiency — of  making  words 
define  facts  about  consciousness.  Her  task  is  to  make 
words  embody  consciousness  itself — the  living  stream 
of  perceptions,   intuitions,   images,   taken  moment  by 

— viii — 


DEADLOCK 

moment  as  it  flows,  for  whatever  it  may  be  worth. 
The  elder  fashion,  the  Henry  James  method,  was  to 
follow  the  stream  of  an  individual  consciousness  as  it 
slipped^  under  the  bridge  whereon  one  had  more  or  less 
advantageously  perched  oneself.  Miss  Richardson's 
method  is  to  be  the  slipping  stream.  She  masters  her 
subject,  not  by  analyzing  it  from  a  strategic  angle,  but 
by  achieving  complete  identity  with  it  throughout. 
This  I  conceive  to  be  what  Mr.  Beresford  means  when 
he  says  that  Miss  Richardson  "has  taken  the  final 
plunge,"  that  her  "Miriam  is,  indeed,  one  with  life." 
So  much  for  the  contemporary  development  —  a 
development  so  completely  crystallized  in  the  work  of 
Miss  Richardson,  its  pioneer,  that  it  would  stand  here- 
after as  a  fait  accompli  by  virtue  of  her  work  alone. 
Now,  what  is  this  development  of  the  present  going 
to  signify  to  the  future?  I  cling  determinedly  to  the 
hope  that  it  will  constitute  nothing  less  than  the  inau- 
guration of  that  super-realism  which  is,  perhaps,  the 
True  Romance  of  tomorrow.  Realism  according  to 
Zola,  according  to  Howells,  according  to  Arnold  Ben- 
nett, has  admirably  discharged  its  function — briefly, 
to  be  a  corrective  of  the  elder  sentimentalism — and 
might  as  well  now  discharge  itself.  It, is  ripe  for  dis- 
solution; the  record  of  its  passing,  even  while  we  wait, 
is  as  legible  to  all  but  the  slow-witted  as  anything  in 
history.  The, question  is,  What  next?  One  possible 
answer  is  represented  by  the  evolution  of  a  more  beau- 
tiful symbolism  for  whatever  we  can  grasp  as  truth — 
and  very  beautiful  such  a  symbolism  can  be  in  the 
hands,  let  us  say,  of  Mr.  James  Branch  Cabell.  The 
other  possible  answer — Miss  Richardson's — is  the 
frank  exploration,  by  art  as  by  science,  of  a  new  prov- 
ince, that  of  the  Self. 

— ix — 


DEADLOCK 

By  the  queerest  conceivable  inversion  of  all  ordinary 
likelihood,  our  human  knowledge  began  at  the  remotest 
outpost  of  the  stellar  universe  and  worked  slowly  home- 
ward to  ourselves.  We  knew  nothing  about  this  earth 
until  we  had  more  or  less  unriddled  the  skies,  nothing 
about  matter  until  we  had  found  our  way  about  the 
earth,  nothing  about  organic  life  until  we  had  deter* 
mined  some  basic  facts  about  matter,  nothing  about 
man's  body  until  we  had  framed  the  concept  of  all 
organic  life  as  somehow  one,  nothing  about  man's  mind 
until  we  had  read  it  as  a  function  of  his  body.  Each 
of  these  major  advances  in  knowledge  began  by  pro- 
ducing upheaval,  despair,  and  ended  by  producing  liber- 
ation, romance,  art.  The  conquest  that  remains  to  us 
is  that  of  consciousness  itself — of  that  awareness  of 
being  which  contains  and  overlaps  every  specific  action 
of  the  mind.  From  everything  ^that  is  known,  the 
mind  of  the  race  comes  home  at  the  last  to  that  which 
knows.  This  coming,  home,  is  it  not  the  last  and  most 
stupendous  romance  of  the  ages?  It  is  not  to  be 
accomplished,  perhaps,  save  at  the  cost  of  universal 
momentary  disaster,  despair,  morbidity,  self-torture — 
the  growing-pains  of  the  race — but  it  is  inevitable  for 
all  that.  And  once  we  have  learned  to  face  without 
horror  the  reality  of  ourselves,  we  can  find  our  ways 
about  the  penetralia  of  ^our  own  being  as  comfortably 
as  the  early  mariners  found  theirs  about  a  terrestrial 
globe  but  recently  emerged  from  nightmare. 

Now,  it  is  the  singular  project  of  art  in  our  genera- 
tion to  brave  the  risks  and  penalties  of  this  adventure 
hand  in  hand  with  science.  Always  before,  art  has 
taken  its  inception  from  accepted  truth,  assimilated 
knowledge;  its  adventure  has  had  to  be  more  of  form 
than    of   substance.     But   now   it   is   adventurous   in 


DEADLOCK 

essence,  adventurous  through  and  through.  All  honest 
post-impressionism  both  deals  in  a  new  substance  and 
creates,  for  the  new  substance,  a  new  form.  Art 
instead  of  waiting  for  the  new  introspection  to  be 
brought  past  its  stage  of  excited,  rasped  self-conscious- 
ness to  a  point  of  serene  and  leisurely  approaches,  sur- 
renders itself  to  the  excitation,  makes  the  rasped  self- 
consciousness  of  the  age  its  principal  material. 

Perhaps  you  hold  that  to  do  this  is  a  wrong,  because 
a  premature,  tactic  for  the  artist;  that  there  is  no  true 
art  which  is  not  based  on  serenity.  Well,  I  am  not 
choosing  this  occasion  for  either  denial  or  affirmation. 
It  is  enough  to  point  out, that  Miss  Richardson's  work 
is  the  first  and  incomparably  the  most  audacious  trans- 
ference to  English  fiction  of  a  venture  in  which  every 
one  of  us  ^rrioderns  has  a  stake,  simply  because  it 
involves  the  mind  and  nervous  tissue  of  the  species. 
Can  we  pluck  the  fine  fruits  of  complete  self-aware- 
ness, or  does  the  attempt  mean  universal  dementia? 
That  is  the  problem  which  touches  all  who  are  of  our 
epoch.  The  more  premature  Miss  Richardson's  ex- 
periment strikes  you  as  being,  the  more  audacious  you 
will  find  it.  Also — if  there  be  any  soundness  in  my 
notion  of  the  outcome — to  insist  that  it  is  premature  is 
only  another  way  of  saying  that  it  is  prophetic. 

What  remains  to  be ^  said  is  that  "Deadlock,"  even 
more  than  its  predecessors,  concentrates  and  harmo- 
nizes its  author's  two  great  gifts  of  a  brilliant  subtlety 
and  a  nervous  vitality.  All  tendencies  and  philoso- 
ophies  aside,  this  is  by  a  good  deal  the  best  thing  she 
has  done.  She  has  been  growing,  all  the  while  that  she 
has  refused  to  change  except  In  the  direction  of  her- 
self.    The  great  thing  in  Miss  Richardson  is  her  sense 

— xi — 


DEADLOCK 

of  the  actual  clutch  of  life, upon  all  the  faculties  of  one 
who  truly  lives,  as  her  Miriam  Henderson  lives  in  these 
pages.  This  sense  has  never,  I  think,  been  so  sharp, 
so  momentous,  or  so  rewarding  as  here  in  "Deadlock." 

Wilson  Follett. 


-XI 1- 


DEADLOCK 


CHAPTER  I 

MIRIAM  ran  upstairs  narrowly  ahead  of  her 
thoughts.  In  the  small  enclosure  of  her  room 
they  surged  about  her,  gathering  power  from  the 
familiar  objects  silently  waiting  to  share  her  astounded 
contemplation  of  the  fresh  material.  She  swept  joy- 
fully about  the  room,  ducking  and  doubling  to  avoid 
arrest  until  she  should  have  discovered  some  engrossing 
occupation.  But  in  the  instant's  pause  at  each  eagerly 
opened  drawer  and  cupboard,  her  mind  threw  up  im- 
ages. It  was  useless.  There  was  no  escape  up  here. 
Pelted  from  within  and  without,  she  paused  in  laughter 
with  clasped  restraining  hands  .  .  .  the  rest  of  the 
evening  must  be  spent  with  people.  .  .  the  nearest;  the 
Baileys;  she  would  go  down  into  the  dining-room  and 
be  charming  with  the  Baileys  until  to-morrow's  busy 
thoughtless  hours  were  in  sight.  Half-way  downstairs 
she  remembered  that  the  forms  waiting  below,  for  so 
long  unnoticed  and  unpondered,  might  be  surprised, 
perhaps  affronted,  by  her  sudden  interested  reappear- 
ance. She  rushed  on.  She  could  break  through  that 
barrier.  Mrs.  Bailey's  quiet  withholding  dignity  would 
end  in  delight  over  a  shared  gay  acknowledgment 
that  her  house  was  looking  up. 

She  opened  the  dining-room  door,  facing  in  ad- 
vance the  family  gathered  at  needlework  under  the 
gaslight,  an  island  group  in  the  waste  of  dreary  In- 


DEADLOCK 

creasing  shabbiness  .  .  .  she  would  ask  some  ques- 
tion, apologiz,ing  for  disturbing  them.  The  room 
seemed  empty;  the  gas  was  turned  dismally  low.  Only 
one  light  was  on,  the  once  new,  drearily  hopeful  in- 
candescent burner.  Its  broken  mantle  shed  a  ghastly 
bluish-white  glare  over  the  dead  fern  in  the  centre 
of  the  table  and  left  the  further  parts  of  the  room  in 
obscurity.  But  there  was  some  one  there;  a  man,  sit- 
ting perched  on  the  sofa-head,  and  beyond  him  some- 
one sitting  on  the  sofa.  She  came  forward  into  silence. 
They  made  no  movement;  boarders,  people  she  did  not 
know,  stupefied  by  their  endurance  of  the  dreariness 
of  the  room.  She  crossed  to  the  fireside  and  stood 
looking  at  the  clock-face.  The  clock  was  not  going. 
"Are  you  wanting  the  real  Greenwich,  Miss  Hender- 
son?" She  turned,  ashamed  of  her  mean  revival  of 
interest  in  a  world  from  which  she  had  turned  away,  to 
observe  the  woman  who  had  found  possible  a  friendly 
relationship  with  Mr.  Gunner.  "Oh  yes  I  dol*  she 
answered  hurriedly,  carefully  avoiding  the  meeting  of 
eyes  that  would  call  forth  his  numb  clucking  laughter. 
But  she  was  looking  into  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Bailey.  .  .  . 
Sitting  tucked  neatly  into  the  sofa  corner,  with  clasped 
hands,  her  shabbiness  veiled  by  the  dim  light,  she  ap- 
peared to  be  smiling  a  far-away  welcome  from  a  face 
that  shone  rounded  and  rosy  in  the  gloom.  She  was 
neither  vexed  nor  pleased.  She  was  far  away,  and 
Mr.  Gunner  went  on  conducting  the  interview.  He 
was  speaking  again,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand.  He, 
having  evidently  become  a  sort  of  intimate  of  the 
Baileys,  was  of  course  despising  her  for  her  aloofness 
during  the  bad  period.  She  paid  no  heed  to  his  words, 
remaining  engrossed  in  Mrs.  Bailey's  curious  still  man- 

— 2 — 


DEADLOCK 

ner,  her'  strange  unwonted  air  of  having  no  part  in 
what  was  going  on. 

She  sought  about  for  some  question  to  justify  her 
presence  and  perhaps  break  the  spell,  and  recovered  a 
memory  of  the  kind  of  enquiry  used  by  boarders  to 
sustain  their  times  of  association  with  Mrs.  Bailey. 
In  reply  to  her  announcement  that  she  had  come  down 
to  ask  the  best  way  of  getting  to  Covent  Garden  early 
in  the  morning  Mrs.  Bailey  sat  forward  as  if  for  con- 
versation. The  spell  was  partly  broken,  but  Miriam 
hardly  recognized  the  smooth  dreamy  voice  in  which 
Mrs.  Bailey  echoed  the  question,  and  moved  about  the 
room  enlarging  on  her  imaginary  enterprise,  strug- 
gling against  the  humiliation  of  being  aware  of  Mr. 
Gunner's  watchfulness,  trying  to  recover  the  mood  in 
which  she  had  come  down  and  to  drive  the  message  of 
its  gaiety  through  Mrs.  Bailey's  detachment.  She 
found  herself  at  the  end  of  her  tirade,  standing  once 
more  facing  the  group  on  the  sofa ;  startled  by  their 
united  appearance  of  kindly,  smiling,  patient,  almost 
patronizing  tolerance.  Lurking  behind  it  was  some 
kind  of  amusement.  She  had  been  an  awkward  fool, 
rushing  In,  seeing  nothing.  They  had  been  discussing 
business  together,  the  eternal  difficulties  of  the  house. 
Mr.  Gunner  was  behind  It  all  now,  intimate  and  helpful 
and  she  had  come  selfishly  In,  Interrupting.  Mrs. 
Bailey  had  the  right  to  display  indifference  to  her  as- 
sumption that  anything  she  chose  to  present  should 
receive  her  undivided  attention;  and  she  had  not  dis- 
played Indifference.  If  Mr.  Gunner  had  not  been  there 
she  would  have  been  her  old  self.  There  they  sat,  to- 
gether, frustrating  her.  Angered  by  the  pressure  of 
her  desire  for  reinstatement  she  crashed  against  their 


DEADLOCK 

quietly  smiling  resistance.  "Have  I  been  interrupting 
you?" 

"No,  young  lady;  certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bailey 
in  her  usual  manner,  brushing  at  her  skirt. 

"I  believe  I  have,"  smiled  Miriam  obstinately. 

Mr.  Gunner  smiled  serenely  back  at  her.  There  was 
something  extraordinary  in  such  a  smile  coming  from 
him.  His  stupid  raillery  was  there,  but  behind  it  was 
a  modest  confidence. 

"No,"  he  said  gently.  "I  was  only  trying  to  dem- 
onstrate to  Mrs.  Bailey  the  bi-nomial  theorem." 

They  did  not  want  her  to  go  away.  The  room  was 
freely  hers.  She  moved  away  from  them,  wandering 
about  in  it.  It  was  full,  just  beyond  the  veil  of  its 
hushed  desolation,  of  bright  light;  thronging  with 
scenes  ranged  in  her  memory.  All  the  people  in  them 
were  away  somewhere  living  their  lives;  they  had 
come  out  of  lives  into  the  strange,  lifeless,  suspended 
atmosphere  of  the  house.  She  had  felt  that  they  were 
nothing  but  a  part  of  its  suspension,  that  behind  their 
extraordinary  secretive  talkative  openness  there  was 
nothing,  no  personal  interest  or  wonder,  no  personal- 
ity, only  frozen  wary  secretiveness.  And  they  had 
lives  and  had  gone  back  into  them  or  forward  to  them. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Bailey  and  Mr.  Gunner  had  always  real- 
ized this  .  .  .  always  seen  them  as  people  with  other 
lives,  not  ghosts,  frozen  before  they  came,  or  unfor- 
tunates coming  inevitably  to  this  house  rather  than  to 
any  other,  to  pass  on,  frozen  for  life,  by  their  very 
passage  through  its  atmosphere.  .  .  .  There  had  been 
the  Canadians  and  the  foreigners,  unconscious  of  the 
atmosphere;  free  and  active  in  it.  Perhaps  because 
they  really  v/ent  to  Covent  Garden  and  Petticoat  Lane 

—4— 


DEADLOCK 

and  Saint  Paul's.  .  .  .  There's  not  many  stays  'ere 
long;  them  as  stays,  stays  always.  A  man  writing; 
pleased  with  making  a  single  phrase  stand  for  a  de- 
scription of  a  third-rate  boarding-house,  not  seeing 
that  it  turned  him  into  a  third-rate  boarding-house. 
,  .  .  Stays  always;  always.  But  that  meant 
boarders;  perhaps  only  those  boarders  who  did  nothing 
at  all  but  live  in  the  house,  waiting  for  their  food; 
"human  odds  and  ends"  .  .  .  Hterary  talk,  the  need 
for  phrases. 

These  afterthoughts  always  came,  answering  the 
man's  phrase;  but  they  had  not  prevented  his  descrip- 
tion from  coming  up  always  now  together  with  any 
thoughts  about  the  house.  There  was  a  truth  in  it, 
but  not  anything  of  the  whole  truth.  It  was  like  a 
photograph  ...  it  made  you  see  the  slatternly 
servant  and  the  house  and  the  dreadful  looking  people 
going  in  and  out.  Clever  phrases  that  make  you  see 
things  by  a  deliberate  arrangement,  leave  an  impres- 
sion that  is  false  to  life.  But  men  do  see  life  in  this 
way,  disposing  of  things  and  rushing  on  with  their 
talk;  they  think  like  that,  all  their  thoughts  false  to 
life;  everything  neatly  described  in  single  phrases  that 
are  not  true.  Starting  with  a  false  statement  they  go 
on  piling  up  their  books.  That  man  never  saw  how 
extraordinary  it  was  that  there  should  be  anybody, 
waiting  for  anything.  But  why  did  their  clever 
phrases  keep  on  coming  up  in  one's  mind? 

Smitten  suddenly  when  she  stood  still  to  face  her 
question,  by  a  sense  of  the  silence  of  the  room,  she  rec- 
ognized that  they  were  not  waiting  at  all  for  her  to 
make  a  party  there.  They  wanted  to  go  on  with  their 
talk.     They  had  not  merely  been  sitting  there  in  coun- 

—5— 


DEADLOCK 

cil  at  the  heart  of  the  gloom  because  the  arrival  of  new 
boarders  was  beginning  to  lift  it.  They  had  sat  like 
that  many  times  before.  They  were  grouped  together 
between  her  and  her  old  standing  in  the  house,  and  not 
only  they,  but  life,  going,  at  this  moment,  on  and  on. 
They  did  not  know,  life  did  not  know,  what  she  was 
going  to  prove.  They  did  not  know  why  she  had 
come  down.  She  could  not  go  back  again  without 
driving  home  her  proof.  It  was  here  the  remainder 
of  the  evening  must  be  passed,  standing  on  guard  be- 
fore its  earlier  part,  strung  by  it  to  an  animation  that 
would  satisfy  Mrs.  Bailey  and  restore  to  herself  the 
place  she  had  held  in  the  house  at  the  time  when  her 
life  there  had  not  been  a  shapeless  going  on  and  on. 
The  shapelessness  had  gone  on  too  long.  Mrs.  Bailey 
had  been  aware  of  it,  even  in  her  estrangement.  But 
she  could  be  made  to  feel  that  she  had  been  mis- 
taken. Looked  back  upon  now,  the  interval  showed 
bright  with  things  that  would  appear  to  Mrs.  Bailey 
as  right  and  wonderful  life;  they  were  wonderful  now, 
linked  up  with  the  wonder  of  this  evening,  and  could  be 
discussed  with  her,  now  that  it  was  again  miraculously 
certain  they  were  not  all  there  was. 

But  Mr.  Gunner  was  still  there,  perched  stolidly 
in  the  way.  In  the  old  days  antagonism  and  some 
hidden  fear  there  was  in  his  dislike  of  her,  would  have 
served  to  drive  him  away.  But  now  he  was  immov- 
able ;  and  felt,  or  for  some  reason  thought  he  felt,  no 
antagonism.  Perhaps  he  and  Mrs.  Bailey  had  dis- 
cussed her  together.  In  this  intolerable  thought  she 
moved  towards  the  sofa  with  the  desperate  intention 
of  sitting  intimately  down  at  Mrs.  Bailey's  side  and 
beginning  somehow,  no  matter  how,  to  talk  in  a  way 

—6— 


DEADLOCK 

that  must  in  the  end  send  him  away.  "There's  a  new 
comet,"  she  said  violently.  They  looked  up  simul- 
taneously into  her  face,  each  of  their  faces  wearing  a 
kind,  veiled,  unanimous  patience.  Mrs.  Bailey  held  her 
smile  and  seemed  about  to  speak;  but  she  sat  back  re- 
suming her  dreamy  composure  as  Mr.  Gunner  taking 
out  his  notebook  cheerfully  said: 

"If  you'll  give  me  his  name  and  address  we'll  take 
the  earhest  opportunity  of  paying  a  call." 

Mrs.  Bailey  was  pleading  for  indulgence  of  her  fail- 
ure to  cover  and  distribute  this  jest  in  her  usual  way. 
But  she  was  ready  now  for  a  seated  confabulation. 
But  he  would  stay,  permitted  by  her,  immovable,  slash- 
ing across  their  talk  with  his  unfailing  snigger,  unre- 
proved. 

"All  sorts  of  people  are  staying  up  to  see  it;  I 
suppose  one  ought,"  Miriam  said  cheerfully.  She 
could  go  upstairs  and  think  about  the  comet.  She 
went  away,  smiling  back  her  response  to  Mrs.  Bailey's 
awakening  smile. 

Her  starlit  window  suggested  the  many  watchers. 
Perhaps  he  would  be  watching?  But  if  he  had  seen 
no  papers  on  the  way  from  Russia  he  might  not  have 
heard  of  it.  It  would  be  something  to  mention  to- 
morrow. But  then  one  would  have  to  confess  that  one 
had  not  watched.  She  opened  her  window  and  looked 
out.  It  was  a  warm  night;  but  perhaps  this  was  not 
the  right  part  of  the  sky.  The  sky  looked  intelligent. 
She  sat  in  front  of  the  window.  Very  soon  now  it 
would  not  be  too  early  to  light  the  gas  and  go  to  bed. 

No  one  had  ever  seen  a  comet  rushing  through 
space.  There  was  nothing  to  look  for.  Only  people 
who  knew  the  whole  map  of  the  sky  would  recognize 

—7— 


DEADLOCK 

the  presence  of  the  comet.  .  .  .  But  there  was  a  sort 
of  calming  joy  in  watching  even  a  small  piece  of  a  sky 
that  others  were  watching  too;  it  was  one's  own  sky 
because  one  was  a  human  being.  Knowing  of  the  sky 
and  even  very  ignorantly  a  little  of  the  things  that 
made  its  effects,  gave  the  most  quiet  sense  of  being 
human;  and  a  sense  of  other  human  beings,  not  as  sep- 
arate disturbing  personalities,  but  as  sky-watchers. 
.  .  .  "Looking  at  the  stars  one  feels  the  infinite 
pettiness  of  mundane  affairs.  I  am  perpetually  aston- 
ished by  the  misapplication  of  the  term  infinite.  How, 
for  instance,  can  one  thing  be  said  to  be  infinitely 
smaller  than  another?"  He  had  always  objected  only 
to  the  inaccuracy,  not  to  the  dreary-weary  sentiment. 
Sic  transit.  Almost  every  one,  even  people  who  liked 
looking  at  the  night-sky  seemed  to  feel  that,  in  the  end. 
How  do  they  get  this  kind  of  impression?  If  the 
stars  are  sublime,  why  should  the  earth  be  therefore 
petty?  It  is  part  of  a  sublime  system.  If  the  earth 
is  to  be  called  petty,  then  the  stars  must  be  called 
petty  too.  They  may  not  even  be  inhabited.  Perhaps 
they  mean  the  movement  of  the  vast  system  going  on 
for  ever,  while  men  die.  The  indestructibility  of  mat- 
ter. But  if  matter  is  indestructible,  it  is  not  what  the 
people  who  used  the  phrase  mean  by  matter.  If  mat- 
ter is  not  conscious,  man  is  more  than  matter.  If  a 
small,  no  matter  how  small,  conscious  thing  is  called 
petty  in  comparison  with  big,  no  matter  how  big  un- 
conscious things,  everything  is  made  a  question  of  size, 
which  is  absurd.  But  all  these  people  think  that  con- 
sciousness dies.   .   .   . 

The  quiet  forgotten  sky  was  there  again;  intelligent, 
blottincr   out   unanswered   questions,   silently   reaching 

—8— 


DEADLOCK 

down  into  the  life  that  rose  faintly  in  her  to  meet  it, 
the  strange  mysterious  life,  far  away  below  all  inter- 
ference, and  always  the  same. 

Teaching,  being  known  as  a  teacher,  had  brought 
about  Mrs.  Bailey's  confident  promise  to  the  Russian 
student.  There  was  no  help  for  that.  If  he  were 
cheated,  it  was  part  of  the  general  confusion  of  the 
outside  life.  He  also  was  subject  to  that.  It  would 
be  a  moment  in  his  well-furnished  life,  caught  up  when- 
ever his  memory  touched  it,  into  the  strand  of  con- 
temptible things.  He  would  see  her  drifting  almost 
submerged  in  the  flood  of  debris  that  made  up  the 
boarding-house  life,  its  influence  not  recognized  in  the 
first  moments  because  she  stood  out  from  it,  still  bear- 
ing, externally,  the  manner  of  another  kind  of  life. 
The  other  kind  of  life  was  there,  but  able  to  realize 
itself  only  when  she  was  alone.  It  had  been  all  round 
her,  a  repelling  memory,  just  now  in  the  dining-room 
.  .  .  blinding  her  .  .  .  making  her  utterly  stupid 
.  .  .  and  there  they  were,  in  another  world,  living  their 
lives;  their  smiling  patience  taking  its  time,  amused 
that  she  did  not  see.  Of  course  that  was  what  he  had 
meant.  There  was  no  other  possible  meaning  .  .  . 
behind  barred  gates,  closed  against  her,  they  had  sat, 
patiently  impatient  with  her  absurdity  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Bailey  and  Mr.  Gunner.   .   . 

He  had  had  the  clearness  of  vision  to  discover  what 
she  was  .  .  .  behind  her  half-dyed  grey  hair  and 
terrible  ill-fitting  teeth.  Glorious.  Into  the  midst 
of  her  failing  experiment,  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  shadow  of  on-coming  age  was  making  It  visibly 
tragic,  had  come  this  man  in  his  youth,  clear-sighted 
and  determined,  seeing  her  as  his  happiness,  his  girl. 

—9— 


DEADLOCK 

She  was  a  girl,  modest  and  good.  .  .  .  Circumstances 
could  do  nothing.  There  as  she  stood  at  bay  in  the 
midst  of  them,  the  thing  she  beheved  in,  her  one  test 
of  everything  in  Hfe,  always  sure  of  her  defence  and  the 
shelter  of  her  curious  little  iron  strength,  had  come 
again  to  her  herself,  all  her  own  ...  it  was  the  un- 
asked reward  of  her  unswerving  faith.  She  stood  dec- 
orated by  a  miracle. 

Mrs.  Bailey  had  triumphed;  justified  her  everlast- 
ing confident  smile. 

She  was  enviable;  her  qualities  blazoned  by  success 
in  a  competition  whose  judges,  being  blind,  never 
failed  in  discovery.  .  .  . 

But  the  miracle  gleams  only  for  a  moment,  and  the 
personal  life,  no  longer  threading  its  way  in  a  wonder- 
ful shining  mysteriously  continuous  and  decisive  pattern 
freely  in  and  out  of  the  world-wide  everything,  is 
henceforth  labelled  and  exposed,  repeating  until  the 
eye  wearies  of  its  fixity,  one  little  lustreless  shape; 
and  the  outside  world  is  left  untouched  and  unchanged. 
Is  it  worth  while  ?  A  bhnd  end,  in  which  death  swiftly 
increases.  .  .  .  But  without  it,  in  the  end,  there 
is  no  shape  at  all? 

The  hour  had  been  such  a  surprising  success  be- 
cause of  a  smattering  of  knowledge :  until  the  moment 
when  he  had  said  I  have  always  from  the  first  been  in- 
terested in  philosophy.  Then  knowing  that  the  fasci- 
nating thing  was  philosophy  and  being  ignorant  of  phi- 
losophy, brought  the  certainty  of  being  unable  to  keep 
pace.  .  .  .  Philosophy  had  come,  the  strange  name- 
less thread  in  the  books  that  were  not  novels,  with  its 
terrible  known  name  at  last  and  disappeared  in  the  same 
moment  for  ever  away  into  the  lives  of  people  who 

— lo — 


DEADLOCK 

were  free  to  study.  .  .  ,  But  if,  without  knowing  it, 
one  had  been  for  so  long  interested  in  a  subject,  surely 
it  gave  a  sort  of  right?  Perhaps  he  would  go  on  talk- 
ing about  philosophy  without  asking  questions.  No 
matter  what  failure  lay  ahead,  it  might  be  possible, 
even  if  the  lessons  lasted  only  a  little  while,  to  find  out 
all  he  knew  about  philosophy.  It  was  a  privilege,  an- 
other of  those  extraordinary  privileges  coming  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  in  strange  places,  books  or 
people  knowing  all  about  things  one  had  already  be- 
come involved  in  without  knowing  when  or  why,  people 
interested  and  attracted  by  a  response  that  at  first  re- 
vealed no  differences,  so  that  they  all  in  turn  took  one 
to  be  hke  themselves,  and  looking  at  life  in  their  way. 
It  made  a  relationship  that  was  as  false  as  it  was  true. 
What  they  were,  they  were  permanently;  always  true 
to  the  same  things.  Why  being  so  different,  was  one 
privileged  to  meet  them?  There  must  be  some  expla- 
nation. There  was  something  that  for  awhile  at- 
tracted all  kinds  of  utterly  different  people,  men  and 
women — and  then  something  .that  repelled  them,  some 
sudden  revelation  of  opposition,  or  absolute  difference, 
making  one  appear  to  have  been  playing  a  part.  In- 
sincere and  fickle. 

What  is  fickleness?  He  is  fickle,  people  say,  with 
a  wise  smile.  But  one  always  knows  quite  well  why 
people  go  away,  and  why  one  goes  oneself.  Not  hav- 
ing the  sense  of  fickleness  probably  means  that  one  is 
fickle.  There  is  something  behind  the  accusation  and 
the  maddening  smile  with  which  it  is  always  made, 
that  makes  you  say  thank  heaven.  People  who  are 
not  what  they  call  fickle,  but  always  the  same,  are  al- 
ways, in  the  midst  of  their  bland  security,  depressed 

— 11 — 


DEADLOCK 

about  life  in  general,  and  have  "a  poor  opinion  of  hu- 
manity." "Humanity  does  not  change,"  they  say.  It 
is  the  same  as  it  was  in  the  beginning  is  now  and  ever 
will  be.  .  .  .  And  now  to  Godthefather  .  .  .  and 
they  find  even  their  steadfast  relationships  dull.  They 
are  the  people  who  talk  about  "ordinary  everyday  life" 
and  approve  of  "far  horizons"  and  desert  islands  and 
the  other  side  of  the  moon,  as  if  they  were  real  and 
wonderful  and  life  was  not.  If  they  went  there  it 
would  be  the  same  to  them;  they  would  be  just  the 
same  there;  but  something  in  the  way  their  lives  are 
arranged  prevents  them  from  ever  suddenly  meeting 
Mr.  Shatov.  They  meet  only  each  other.  The  men 
make  sly  horrible  jokes  together  .  .  .  the  Greeks  had 
only  one  wife;  they  called  it  monotony. 

.  .  .  But  I  find  my  daily  round  at  Wimpole 
Street  dull.  No,  not  dull ;  wrong  in  some  way.  I  did 
not  choose  it;  I  was  forced  into  it.  I  chose  it;  there 
was  something  there;  but  it  has  gone.  If  it  had  not 
gone  I  should  never  have  found  other  things.  "But 
you  would  have  found  something  else,  my  child."  No 
I  am  glad  it  has  gone.  I  see  now  what  I  have  escaped. 
"But  you  would  have  developed  differently  and  not  got 
out  of  touch.  People  don't  if  they  are  always  to- 
gether." But  that  is  just  the  dreadful  thing.  .  .  . 
Cleo  de  Merode  going  back  sometimes,  with  just  one 
woman  friend,  to  the  little  cabarets.  .  .  .  Intense 
sympathy  with  that  means  that  one  is  a  sort  of  adven- 
turess .  .  .  the  Queen  can  never  ride  on  an  om- 
nibus. 

Why  does  being  free  give  a  feeling  of  meanness? 
Being  able  to  begin  all  over  again,  always  unknown, 
at  any  moment;  feeling  a  sort  of  pity  and  contempt 

— 12 — 


DEADLOCK 

for  the  people  who  can't;  and  then  being  happy  and 
forgetting  them.  But  there  is  pain  all  round  it  that 
they  never  know.  It  is  only  by  the  pain  of  remaining 
free  that  one  can  have  the  whole  world  round  one  all 
the  time.   .   .   .     But  it  disappears.   .   .   . 

No,  just  at  the  moment  you  are  most  sure  that 
everything  is  over  for  ever,  it  comes  again,  and  you 
cannot  believe  it  ever  disappeared.  But  with  the  little 
feeling  of  meanness;  towards  the  people  you  have  left 
and  towards  the  new  people.  If  you  have  ever  failed 
anybody,  you  have  no  right  to  speak  to  anyone  else. 
All  these  years  I  ought  never  to  have  spoken  to  any- 
body. "If  I  have  shrunk  unequal  from  one  contest  the 
joy  I  find  in  all  the  rest  becomes  mean  and  cowardly. 
I  should  hate  myself  if  I  then  made  my  other 
friends  my  asylum."  Emerson  would  have  hated  me. 
But  he  thinks  evil  people  are  necessary.  How  is  one 
to  know  whether  one  is  really  evil?  Suppose  one  is. 
The  Catholics  believe  that  even  the  people  in  hell  have 
a  little  relaxation  now  and  again.  Lewes  said  it  is  the 
relief  from  pain  that  gives  you  the  illusion  of  bliss. 
It  was  cruel  when  she  was  dying;  but  if  it  is  true  where 
is  the  difference?  Perhaps  in  being  mean  enough  to 
take  relief  you  don't  deserve.  Can  any  one  be  thor- 
oughly happy  and  thoroughly  evil? 

Botheration.  Some  clue  had  been  missed.  There 
was  something  incomplete  in  the  thought  that  had  come 
just  now  and  seemed  so  convincing.  She  turned  back 
and  faced  the  self  that  had  said  one  ought  to  meet 
everything  in  life  with  one's  eyes  on  the  sky.  It  had 
flashed  in  and  out,  between  her  thoughts.  Now  it 
seemed  alien.  Other  thoughts  were  coming  up,  the 
thoughts  and  calculations  she  had  not  meant  to  make, 

—13— 


DEADLOCK 

but  they  rushed  forward,  and  there  was  something 
extraordinary  behind  them,  something  that  was  part  of 
the  sky,  of  her  own  particular  sky  as  she  knew  it.  She 
had  the  right  to  make  them,  having  been  driven  away 
from  turning  them  into  social  charm  for  the  dining- 
room.  Once  more  she  turned  busily  to  the  sky,  thrust- 
ing back  her  thoughts;  but  it  was  just  the  flat  sky  of 
everyday,  part  of  London;  with  nothing  particular  to 
say. 

Thinking  it  over  up  here,  alone  in  the  universe,  could 
not  hurt  the  facts.  Tomorrow  there  would  be  more 
facts.  That  could  not  be  helped,  unless  one  died  in 
the  night  or  the  house  were  burned  down.  Facing 
the  empty  sky,  sitting  between  it  and  the  empty  stillness 
of  the  house  she  felt  she  was  beaten;  too  tired  now  to 
struggle  against  the  tide  of  reflections  she  had  fled 
downstairs  to  avoid.   .  .   . 

Only  this  morning,  it  seemed  days  ago,  coming  into 
the  hall  at  Wimpole  Street,  the  holidays  still  about  her, 
little  changes  in  the  house,  the  greetings,  the  busy  bust- 
ling cheerfulness,  the  sense  of  fresh  beginnings,  all  end- 
ing in  that  dreadful  moment  of  realization;  being  back 
in  the  smell  of  iodoform  for  another  year;  knowing 
that  the  holidays  had  changed  nothing;  that  there  was 
nothing  in  this  life  that  could  fulfil  their  promises; 
nothing  but  the  circling  pressing  details,  invisible  in  the 
distance,  now  all  there,  at  a  glance,  horribly  promising 
to  fill  her  days  and  leave  her  for  her  share  only  tired 
evenings.  Unpacking,  the  spell  of  sunburnt  summer- 
scented,  country-smelling  clothes,  the  fresh  beginning 
in  her  room,  one  visit  to  an  A. B.C.  and  the  British 
Museum   and  everything  would  be  dead  again.     No 

—14— 


DEADLOCK 

change  at  Tansley  Street;  through  the  crack  in  the 
dining-room  door  Mr.  Rodkin  and  his  newspapers, 
Mr.  Gunner  sitting  over  the  empty  grate  waiting  for 
nothing;  Mrs.  Mann  standing  on  the  hearthrug, 
waiting  to  explain  away  something,  watching  Sissie 
and  Mrs.  Bailey  clear  the  table,  with  a  smile  fixed  on 
her  large  well-made  child's  face,  Mr.  Keppel  coming 
out  of  the  room  with  his  graceful  halting  lounge  and 
going  on,  unseeing,  upstairs,  upright  in  his  shabby 
dreamy  grey  clothes  as  if  he  were  walking  on  level 
ground.  Lingering  a  moment  too  long,  Mrs.  Bailey 
in  the  hall,  her  excited  conspirator's  smiles  as  she 
communicated  the  news  of  Mr.  Rodkin's  friend  and 
the  lessons,  as  if  nothing  were  changed  and  one  were 
still  always  available  for  association  with  the  house; 
her  smiling  calculating  dismay  at  the  refusal,  her 
appeal  to  Mr.  Rodkin,  his  abstracted  stiff-jointed 
emergence  into  the  hall  with  his  newspaper,  his  bril- 
liant-eyed, dried-up  laugh,  his  chuckling  assertion,  like 
a  lawyer,  that  he  had  promised  the  lessons  and  Shatov 
must  not  be  disappointed;  the  suspicion  that  Mrs. 
Bailey  was  passing  the  moments  in  fear  of  losing  a 
well-to-do  newcomer,  an  important  person  brought  in 
by  her  only  good  boarder;  the  wretched  sense  of  being 
caught  and  linked  up  again  in  the  shifts  and  deceptions 
of  the  bankrupt  house;  the  uselessness;  the  certainty 
that  the  new  man,  as  described,  would  be  retained  only 
by  his  temporary  ignorance  and  helplessness,  the  vexa- 
tious thought  of  him,  waiting  upstairs  in  the  drawing- 
room  in  a  state  of  groundlessly  aroused  interest  and 
anticipation,  Mr.  Rodkin's  irresponsible  admiring 
spectator's   confidence   as   he   made   the   introductions 

—15^ 


DEADLOCK 

and  vanished  whilst  the  little  dark  frock-coated  figure 
standing  alone  in  the  cold  gaslight  of  the  fireless  room 
was  still  in  the  attitude  of  courteous  obeisance;  the 
happy  ease  of  explaining  to  the  controUedly  waiting 
figure  the  impossibility  of  giving  lessons  on  one's  own 
language  without  the  qualification  of  study;  his  lifted 
head,  the  extraordinary  gentleness  of  the  white, 
tremulous,  determined  features,  the  child-like  openness 
of  the  broad  forehead,  the  brilliant  gentle  deprecating 
eyes,  familiar  handsome  unknown  kindliness  gleaming 
out  between  the  high  arch  of  rich  black  hair  and  the 
small  sharply-pointed  French  beard;  the  change  in  the 
light  of  the  cold  room  with  the  sound  of  the  warm 
deep  voice;  the  few  well-chosen  struggling  words; 
scholarship;  that  strange  sense  that  foreigners  bring, 
of  knowing  and  being  known,  but  without  the  irony  of 
the  French  or  the  plebeianism  of  Germans  and  Scandi- 
navians, bringing  a  consciousness  of  being  on  trial,  but 
without  responsibility.  .  .  . 

The  trial  would  bring  exposure.  Reading  and 
discussion  would  reveal  ignorance  of  English  litera- 
ture.  .  . 

The  hour  of  sitting  accepted  as  a  student,  talking 
easily,  the  right  phrases  remembering  themselves  in 
French  and  German,  would  not  come  again;  the  sudden 
outbreak  of  happiness  after  mentioning  Renan  .  .  . 
hozv  had  she  suddenly  known  that  he  made  the  Old 
Testament  like  a  newspaper?  Parfaitement;  j'ai 
toujours  ete  fort  interesse  dans  la  philosophic.  After 
reading  so  long  ago,  not  understanding  at  the  time 
and  knowing  she  would  only  remember,  without 
words,  something  that  had  come  from  the  pages.      Per- 

—16— 


DEADLOCK 

haps  that  was  how  students  learned;  reading  and 
getting  only  a  general  impression  and  finding  thoughts 
and  words  years  afterwards;  but  how  did  they  pass 
examinations? 

For  that  moment  they  had  been  students  together 
exchanging  photographs  of  their  minds.  That  could 
not  come  again.  It  was  that  moment  that  had  sent 
him  away  at  the  end  of  the  lesson,  plunging  lightly 
upstairs,  brumming  in  his  deep  voice,  and  left  her  sing- 
ing in  the  drawing  room  .  .  .  the  best  way  would  be 
to  consider  him  as  something  superfluous,  to  be 
forgotten  all  day  and  presently,  perhaps  quite  soon, 
to  disappear  altogether.  .  .  .  But  before  her  expo- 
sure brought  the  lessons  to  an  end  and  sent  him  away  to 
find  people  who  were  as  learned  as  he  was,  she  would 
have  heard  more^  Tomorrow  he  would  bring  down 
the  Spinoza  book.  But  it  was  in  German.  They 
might  begin  with  Renan  in  English.  But  that  would 
not  be  reading  English.  He  would  demur  and  dis- 
approve. English  literature.  Stopford  Brooke.  He 
would  think  it  childish;  not  sceptical  enough.  Mat- 
thew Arnold.  Emerson.  Emerson  would  be  perfect 
for  reading;  he  would  see  that  there  was  an  English 
writer  who  knew  everything.  It  would  postpone  the 
newspapers,  and  meanwhile  she  could  find  out  who  was 
Prime  Minister  and  something  about  the  English 
system  of  education.  He  must  read  Emerson;  one 
could  insist  that  it  was  the  purest  English  and  the  most 
beautiful.  If  he  did  not  like  it,  it  would  prove  that 
his  idea  that  the  Russians  and  the  English  were  more 
alike  than  any  other  Europeans  was  an  illusion.  Em- 
erson; and  the  Comet. 

—17— 


DEADLOCK 

Mr.  Shatov  stood  ceremoniously  waiting  and  bow- 
ing as  on  the  previous  evening,  a  stranger  again; 
conversational  interchange  was  far  away  at  the  end 
of  some  chance  opening  that  the  hour  might  not  bring. 
Miriam  clasped  her  volume;  she  could  fill  the  time 
triumphantly  in  correcting  his  accent  and  intonation, 
after  a  few  remarks  about  the  comet. 

Confronting  him  she  could  not  imagine  him  related 
Lo  Emerson.  No  continental  could  fully  appreciate 
Emerson;  except  perhaps  Maeterlinck.  It  would 
have  been  better  to  try  something  more  simple,  with 
less  depth  of  truth  in  it.  Darwin  or  Shakespeare. 
But  Shakespeare  was  poetry;  he  could  not  go  about 
in  England  talking  Shakespeare.  And  Darwin  was 
bad,  for  men. 

He  listened  in  his  subdued  controlled  way  to  her 
remark  and  again  she  saw  him  surrounded  by  his 
world  of  foreign  universities  and  professors,  and 
wondered  for  a  sharp  instant  whether  she  were  be- 
traying some  dreadful  English,  middle-class,  news- 
paper ignorance;  perhaps  there  were  no  longer  any 
comets;  they  were  called  by  some  other  name  ...  he 
might  know  whether  there  was  still  a  nebular  theory 
and  whether  anything  more  had  been  done  about  the 
electrical  contact  of  metals  .  .  .  that  man  in  the 
"Revuedes  deux  Mondes"  saying  that  the  first  out- 
break of  American  literature  was  unfortunately  femi- 
nine. Mill  thought  intuition  at  least  as  valuable  as 
ratiocination  .  .  .  Mill;  he  could  read  Mill.  Emer- 
son would  be  a  secret  attack  on  him,  an  eloquent 
spokesman  for  things  no  foreigner  would  agree  with. 
"Ah  yes,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "I  always  have  had 
great  interest  for  astronomy,  but  now  please  tell  me," 

—18— 


DEADLOCK 

he  lifted  yesterday's  radiant  face — had  there  been 
yesterday  that  glow  of  crimson  tie  showing  under  the 
point  of  his  black  beard  and  the  gold  watch-chain 
across  the  blackness  of  his  waistcoat? — "how  I  shall 
obtain  admission  to  the  British  Moozayum." 

Miriam  gave  instructions  delightedly.  Mr.  Shatov 
hunched  crookedly  in  his  chair,  his  head  thrown  up  and 
listening  towards  her,  his  eyebrows  raised  as  if  he 
were  singing  and  on  his  firm  small  mouth  the  pursed 
look  of  a  falsetto  note.  His  brown  eyes  were  filmed, 
staring  averted,  as  if  fixed  on  some  far-away  thing 
that  did  not  move;  it  was  like  the  expression  in  the 
eyes  of  Mr.  Helsing  .but  older  and  less  scornful. 
There  was  no  scorn  at  all,  only  a  weary  cynically 
burning  knowledge,  yet  the  eyes  were  wide  and 
beautiful  with  youth.  Yesterday's  look  of  age  and 
professorship  had  gone;  he  was  wearing  a  little  short 
coat;  in  spite  of  the  beard  he  was  a  student,  only  just 
come  from  being  one  amongst  many,  surrounded  in 
the  crowding  sociable  foreign  way;  it  gave  his  whole 
expression  a  warmth ;  the  edges  of  his  fine  soft  richly- 
dented  black  hair,  the  contours  of  his  pale  face,  the 
careless  hunching  of  his  clothes  seemed  in  a  strange 
generous  way  unknown  in  England,  at  the  disposal  of 
his  fellow-creatures.  Only  in  his  eyes  was  the  contra- 
dictory lonely  look  of  age.  But  when  they  came 
round  to  meet  hers,  his  head  still  reined  up  and 
motionless,  she  seemed  to  face  the  chubby  upright 
determination  of  a  baby,  and  the  deep  melancholy  in 
the  eyes  was  like  the  melancholy  of  a  puppy. 

"Pairhaps,"  he  said,  "one  of  your  doctors  shall 
sairtify  me  for  a  fit  and  proper  person." 

Miriam  stared  her  double  stupefaction.  For  a 
—19— 


DEADLOCK 

moment,  as  if  to  give  her  time  to  consider  his  sug- 
gestion, his  smile  remained,  still  deferential  but  with 
the  determined  boldness  of  a  naughty  child  lurking 
behind  it;  then  his  eyes  fell,  too  soon  to  catch  her 
answering  smile.  She  could  not,  with  his  determined 
unaverted  and  now  nervously  quivering  face  before 
her,  either  discourage  the  astounding  suggestion  or 
resent  his  complacent  possession  of  information 
about  her. 

"I  should  tell  you,"  he  apologized  gently,  "that 
Mrs.  Bailey  has  say  me  you  are  working  in  the  doctors' 
quarter  of  London." 

"They  are  not  doctors,"  said  Miriam,  feeling 
stiffly  English,  and  in  her  known  post  as  dental  sec- 
retary utterly  outside  his  world  of  privileged  studious 
adventure,  "and  you  want  a  householder  who  is  known 
to  you  and  not  a  hotel  or  boarding-house  keeper." 

"That  is  very  English.  But  no  matter.  Perhaps 
it  shall  be  sufficient  that  I  am  a  graduate." 

"You  could  go  down  and  see  the  librarian,  you  must 
write  a  statement." 

"That  is  an  excellant  idee." 

"I  am  a  reader,  but  not  a  householder." 

"No  matter.  That  is  most  excellant.  You  shall 
pairhaps  introduce  me  to  this  gentleman.  Ah,  that  is 
very  good.  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  find  myself  in 
that  institution.  It  is  one  of  my  heartmost  dreams  of 
England  to  find  myself  in  the  midst  of  all  these  leeter- 
riytchoors When  can  we  go?" 

There  was  a  ring  on  the  little  finger  of  the  hand 
that  drew  from  an  inner  pocket  a  limp  leather  pocket- 
book;  pale  old  gold  curving  up  to  a  small  pimple  of 
jewels.     The   ringed   hand  moving   above   the   dip   of 

— 20 — 


DEADLOCK 

the  double  watch-chain  gave  to  his  youth  a   strange 
look  of  mellow  wealthy  middle  age. 

"Ah.  I  must  write  in  Enghsh.  Please  tell  me. 
But  shall  we  not  go  at  once,  this  evanink?" 

"We  can't;  the  reading-room  closes  at  eight." 

"That  is  very  Enghsh;  well;  tell  me  what  I 
shall  write," 

Miriam  watched  as  he  wrote  with  a  small  quick 
smoothly  moving  pencil.  The  pale  gold  of  the  ring 
was  finely  chased.  The  small  cluster  of  tiny  soft- 
toned  pearls  encircling  and  curving  up  to  a  small  point 
of  diamonds  were  set  in  a  circlet  of  enamel,  a  marvel- 
lous rich  deep  blue.  She  had!  her  Emerson  ready 
when  the  writing  was  done. 

"What  is  Emerson?"  he  enquired,  sitting  back  to 
restore  his  book  to  its  pocket.  "I  do  not  know  this 
writer."  His  reared  head  had  again  the  look  of 
heady  singing,  young,  confronting  everything,  and 
with  all  the  stored  knowledge  that  can  be  given  tO' 
wealthy  youth  prepared  to  meet  her  precious  book. 
If  he  did  not  like  it  there  was  something  shallow  in 
all  the  wonderful  continental  knowledge;  if  he  found 
anything  in  it;  if  he  understood  it  at  all,  they  could 
meet  on  that  one  little  plot  of  equal  ground;  he  might 
even  understand  her  carelessness  about  all  other 
books. 

"He  is  an  American,"  she  said,  desperately  hand- 
ing him  the  little  green  volume. 

"A  most  nice  little  volume,"  he  demurred,  "but  I 
find  it  strandge  that  you  offer  me  the  book  of  an 
American." 

"It  is  the  most  perfect  English  that  you  could  have. 
He  is  a  New  Englander,   a  Bostonian;  the  Pilgrim 

— 21 — 


DEADLOCK 

Fathers;  they  kept  up  the  English  of  our  best  period. 
The  fifteenth  century." 

"That  is  most  interesting,"  he  said  gravely,  turning 
the  precious  pages.  "Why  have  I  not  heard  of  this 
man?  In  Russia  we  know  of  course  their  Thoreau, 
he  has  a  certain  popularity  amongst  extremists,  and 
I  know  also  of  course  their  great  poet,  Vitmann.  I 
see  that  this  is  a  kind  of  philosophical  disquisitions." 

"Ybu  could  not  possibly  have  a  better  book  for 
style  and  phraseology  in  English,  quite  apart  from 
the  meaning." 

''No,"  he  said,  with  reproachful  gravity,  "preciosity 
I  cannot  have." 

Miriam  felt  out  of  her  depth.  "Perhaps  you  won't 
like  Emerson,"  she  said,  "but  it  will  be  good  practice 
for  you.     You  need  not  attend  to  the  meaning." 

"Well,  ach-ma,  we  shall  try,  but  not  this  evanink; 
I  have  headache,  we  shall  rather  talk;  let  us  return  to 
the  soobjects  we  have  discussed  yesterday."  He 
rested  his  elbows  on  the  table,  supporting  his  chin 
on  one  hand,  his  beard  askew,  one  eye  reduced  to  a 
slit  by  the  bulge  of  his  pushed  up  cheek,  his  whole 
face  suddenly  pallid  and  heavy,  sleepy-looking. 

"I  am  wiOJfMnterested  in  philosophy,"  he  said, 
glowering  warmly  through  his  further,  wide-open  eye. 
"It  was  very  good  to  me.  I  found  myself  most  ex- 
cited after  our  talk  of  yesterday.  I  think  you  too 
were  interested?" 

"Yes,  wasn't  it  extraordinary?"  Miriam  paused  to 
choose  between  the  desire  to  confess  her  dread  of 
confronting  a  full-fledged  student  and  a  silence  that 
would  let  him  go  on  talking  while  she  contemplated 
a  series  of  reflections  extending  forward  out  of  sight 

— 22 — 


DEADLOCK 

from  his  surprising  admission  of  fellowship.  It  was 
so  strange,  an  exhilaration  so  deep  and  throwing  such 
wide  thought-inviting  illumination,  to  discover  that 
he  had  found  yesterday  exceptional;  that  he  too,  with 
all  his  wonderful  life,  found  interest  scattered  only 
here  and  there.  Meanwhile  his  eagerness  to  rekindle 
without  fresh  fuel,  the  glow  of  yesterday,  confessed 
an  immaturity  that  filled  her  with  a  tumult  of  aston- 
ished solicitude. 

"You  must  let  me  correct  your  English  today," 
she  said,  busily  taking  him  with  her  voice  by  the 
hand  in  a  forward  rush  into  the  empty  hour  that  was 
to  test,  perhaps  to  destroy  the  achievement  of  their 
first  meeting.  "Just  now  you  said  'the  subjects  we 
have  discussed  yesterday.'  'Have'  is  the  indefinite 
past;  'yesterday,'  as  you  used  it,  is  a  definite  point 
of  time;  passe  defini,  we  discussed  yesterday.  We 
have  always  discussed  these  things  on  Thursdays. 
We  always  discussed  these  things  on  Thursdays. 
Those  two  phrases  have  different  meanings.  The  first 
indefinite  because  it  suggests  the  discussions  still  going 
on,  the  second  definite  referring  to  a  fixed  period  of 
past  time." 

She  had  made  her  speech  at  the  table  and  glanced 
up  at  him  apologetically.  Marvelling  at  her  unex- 
pected knowledge  of  the  grammar  of  her  own  tongue, 
called  into  being  she  supposed  by  the  jar  of  his  inac- 
curacy, she  had  for  a  moment  almost  forgotten  his 
presence. 

"I  perceive,"  he  said  shifting  his  chin  on  his  hand 
to  face  her  fully,  with  bent  head  and  moving  beard- 
point;  his  voice  came  again  as  strange,  from  an 
immense  distance;  he  was  there  like   a  ghost;  "that 

—23— 


DEADLOCK 

you  are  In  spite  of  your  denials  a.  most  excellent 
institutrice.  Ach-ma !  My  English  is  bad.  You 
shall  explain  me  all  these  complications  of  English 
verb-mixing;  but  tonight  I  am  reeally  too  stupid." 

"It  is  all  quite  easy;  it  only  appears  to  be  difficult." 

"It  shall  be  easy;  you  have,  I  remark,  a  more  clear 
pure  English  than  I  have  met;  and  I  am  very  intelli- 
gent.    It  shall  not  be  difficult." 

Miriam  hid  her  laughter  by  gathering  up  one  of 
his  books  with  a  random  question.  But  how  brave. 
Why  should  not  people  admit  intelligence?  ...  It 
was  a  sort  of  pamphlet,  in  French. 

"Ah,  that  is  most  interesting;  you  shall  at  once 
read  it.  He  is  a  most  intelligent  man.  I  have  hear 
this  lectchoor " 

"I  heard,  I  heard,"  cried  Miriam. 

"Yes;  but  excuse  a  moment.  Really  it  is  interstink. 
He  is  one  of  the  most  fine  lecturours  of  Sorbonne; 
membre  de  I'Academie;  the  soobject  is  I'Attention. 
Ah  it  is  better  we  shall  speak  in  French." 

"Nur  auf  deutsch  kann  man  gut  philosophieren," 
quoted  Miriam  disagreeing  with  the  maxim  and  hop- 
ing he  would  not  ask  where  she  had  read  it. 

"That  is  not  so;  that  is  a  typical  German  arrogance. 
The  French  have  some  most  distinguished  p-sycholo- 
gues,  Taine,  and  more  recently,  Tarde.     But  listen." 

Miriam  listened  to  the  description  of  the  lecture. 
For  a  while  he  kept  to  his  careful  slow  English  and 
her  attention  was  divided  between  her  growing  Interest 
In  the  nature  of  his  mistakes,  her  desire  to  tell  him 
that  she  had  discovered  that  he  spoke  Norman  English 
in  German  Idiom  with  an  Intonation  that  she  supposed 
must  be  Russian,  and  the  fascination  of  watching  for 

—24— 


DEADLOCK 

the  fall  of  the  dead-white,  black-fringed  eyelids  on  to 
the  brooding  face,  between  the  framing  of  each 
sentence.  When  he  passed  into  French,  led  by  a 
quotation  which  was  evidently  the  core  of  the  lecture, 
she  saw  the  lecturer,  and  his  circle  of  students  and 
indignantly  belaboured  him  for  making,  and  them  for 
quietly  listening  to  the  assertion  that  it  is  curious  that 
the  human  faculty  of  attention  should  have  originated 
in  women. 

Certainly  she  would  not  read  the  pamphlet.  How- 
ever clever  the  man  might  be,  his  assumptions  about 
women  made  the  carefully  arranged  and  solemnly 
received  display  of  research,  irritatingly  valueless. 
And  Mr.  Shatov  seemed  to  agree,  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course.  .  .  .  "Why  should  he  be  surprised?"  she 
said  when  he  turned  for  her  approval.  ^^How, 
surprised,"  he  asked  laughing,  an  easy  deep  bass 
chuckle,  drawing  his  small  mouth  wide  and  up  at  the 
corners;  a  row  of  small  square  even  teeth  shining  out. 

"Ach-ma,"  he  sighed,  with  shining  eyes,  looking 
happily  replete,  "he  is  a  great  p-sycho-physiologiste," 
and  passed  on  to  eager  narration  of  the  events  of  his 
week  in  Paris.  Listening  to  the  strange  inflections 
of  his  voice,  the  curiously  woven  argumentative  sing- 
song tone,  as  if  he  were  talking  to  himself,  broken 
here  and  there  by  words  thrown  out  with  explosive 
vehemence,  breaking  defiantly  short  as  if  to  crush 
opposition  in  anticipation,  and  then  again  the  soft 
almost  plaintive  sing-song  beginning  of  another  sen- 
tence, Miriam  presently  heard  him  mention  Max 
Nordau  and  learned  that  he  was  something  more 
than  the  author  of  Degeneration.  He  had  written 
Die     Conventionellen    Liigen    der     Kulturmenscheit, 

—25— 


DEADLOCK 

which  she  immediately  must  read.  He  had  been  to 
see  him  and  found  a  truly  marvellous  white-haired  old 
man,  with  eyes,  alive;  so  young  and  vigorous  in  his 
enthusiasm  that  he  made  Mr.  Shatov  at  twenty-two 
feel  old. 

After  that  she  watched  him  from  afar,  set  apart 
from  his  boyhood,  alone  with  her  twenty-five  years 
on  the  borders  of  middle-age.  There  was  the  secret 
of  the  youthful  untested  look  that  showed  in  certain 
poses  of  his  mature  studious  head.  His  beard  and 
his  courtly  manner  and  the  grave  balanced  intelligence 
of  his  eyes  might  have  belonged  to  a  man  of  forty. 
Perhaps  the  Paris  visit  had  been  some  time  ago.  No; 
he  had  come  through  France  for  the  first  time  on 
his  way  to  England.  .  .  .  She  followed  him,  growing 
weary  with  envy,  through  his  excursions  in  Paris  with 
his  father;  went  at  last  to  the  Louvre,  mysterious 
grey  building,  heavy  above  a  row  of  shops,  shutting 
in  works  of  "art,"  in  some  extraordinary  way  under- 
stood, and  known  to  be  "good" ;  and  woke  to  astonish- 
ment to  find  him  sitting  alone,  his  father  impatiently 
gone  back  to  the  hotel,  for  an  hour  in  motionless 
contemplation  of  the  Venus,  having  wept  at  the  first 
sight  of  her  in  the  distance.  The  impression  of  the 
Frenchman's  lecture  was  driven  away.  All  the  things 
she  had  heard  of  on  these  two  evenings  were  in 
the  past. 

He  was  in  England  now,  through  all  the  wonders 
of  his  continental  life,  England  had  beckoned  him. 
Paris  had;  been  just  a  stage  on  his  confident  journey; 
and  the  first  event  of  his  London  life  would  be  Satur- 
day's visit  to  the  British  Museum.  His  eager  foreign 
interest    would    carry    the    visit    off  ...   .  and    she 

—26— 


DEADLOCK 

remembered,  growing  in  the  thought  suddenly  ani- 
mated towards  his  continued  discourse,  that  she  could 
show  him  the  Elgin  Marbles, 

The  next  evening,  going  down  to  the  drawing-room 
at  the  appointed  time,  Miriam  found  it  empty  and 
lit  only  by  the  reflection  from  the  street.  .  .  . 
Standing  in  the  dim  blue  light  she  knew  so  well, 
she  passed  through  a  moment  of  wondering  whether 
she  had  ever  really  sat  talking  in  this  room  with  Mr. 
Shatov.  It  seemed  so  long  ago.  His  mere  presence 
there  had  been  strange  enough;  youth  and  knowledge 
and  prosperity  where  for  so  long  there  had  been 
nothing  but  the  occasional  presence  of  people  who 
were  in  mysterious  disgraceful  difficulties,  and  no 
speech  but  the  so  quickly  acrimonious  interchange  of 
those  who  are  trying  to  carry  things  off.  Perhaps 
he  was  only  late.  She  lit  the  gas  and  leaving  the 
door  wide  sat  down  to  the  piano.  The  loose  flatly 
vibrating  shallow  tones  restored  her  conviction  that 
once  more  the  house  was  as  before,  its  usual  Inter- 
mittent set  of  boarders,  coming  punctually  to  meals, 
enduring  each  other  downstairs  in  the  warmth  until 
bedtime,  disappearing  one  by  one  up  the  unlighted 
stairs,  having  tea  up  here  on  Sundays,  and  for  her, 
the  freedom  of  the  great  dark  house,  the  daily  oblivion 
of  moving  about  in  it,  the  approach  up  the  quiet 
endlessly  dreaming  old  grey  street  in  the  afternoon, 
late  at  night,  under  all  the  changes  of  season  and 
of  weather;  the  empty  drawing-room  that  was  hers 
every  Sunday  morning  with  its  piano,  and  always  there 
at  night  within  its  open  door,  inviting  her  into  Its 
blue-lit   stillness;   her  room  upstairs,   alive  now  and 

—27— 


DEADLOCK 

again  under  some  chance  spell  of  the  weather,  or 
some  book  which  made  her  feel  that  any  life  in  London 
would  be  endurable  for  ever  that  secured  her  room 
with  its  evening  solitude,  now  and  again  the  sense  of 
strange  fresh  invisibly  founded  beginnings;  often  a  cell 
of  torturing  mocking  memories  and  apprehensions, 
driving  her  down  into  the  house  to  hear  the  dreadful 
voices,  giving  out  in  unchanged  accents,  their  unchang- 
ing words  and  phrases. 

Someone  had  come  into  the  room,  bringing  a  glow 
of  life.  She  clung  to  her  playing;  he  need  not  know 
that  she  had  been  waiting  for  him.  A  figure  was 
standing  almost  at  her  side ;  with  that  voice  he  would 
certainly  be  musical  ....  the  sturdiness  and  the 
plaintiveness  were  like  the  Russian  symphonies;  he 
could  go  to  the  Queen's  Hall;  his  being  late  for  the 
lesson  had  introduced  music.  .  .  .  She  broke  off  and 
turned  to  see  Sissie  Bailey,  waiting  with  sullen  polite- 
ness to  speak.  Mr.  Shatov  was  out.  He  had  gone 
out  early  in  the  afternoon  and  had  not  been  seen  since. 
In  Sissie's  sullenly  worried  expression  Miriam  read 
the  Baileys'  fear  that  they  had  already  lost  hold  of 
their  helpless  new  boarder.  She  smiled  her  accept- 
ance and  suggested  that  he  had  met  friends.  Sissie 
remained  grimly  responseless  and  presently  turned  to 
go.  Resuming  her  playing,  Miriam  wondered  bitterly 
where  he  could  have  lingered,  so  easily  dropping  his 
lesson.  What  did  it  matter?  Sooner  or  later  he  was 
bound  to  find  interests;  the  sooner  the  better.  But 
she  could  not  go  on  playing;  the  room  was  cold  and 
black;  horribly  empty  and  still.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Bailey 
would  know  where  he  had  set  out  to  go  this  afternoon; 
she  would  have  directed  him.     She  played  on  zealously 

—28— 


DEADLOCK 

for  a  decent  interval,  closed  the  piano  and  went  down- 
stairs. In  the  dining-room  was  Sissie,  alone,  mending 
a  table-cloth. 

To  account  for  her  presence  Miriam  enquired 
whether  Mrs.  Bailey  were  out.  "Mother's  lying 
down,"  said  Sissie  sullenly,  "she's  got  one  of  her 
headaches."  Miriam  sympathized.  "I  want  her  to 
have  the  doctor;  it's  no  use  going  on  like  this." 
Miriam  was  drawn  irresistibly  towards  Mrs.  Bailey, 
prostrate  in  her  room  with  her  headache.  She  went 
down  the  hall  feeling  herself  young  and  full  of  eager 
strength,  sinking  with  every  step  deeper  and  deeper 
into  her  early  self;  back  again  by  Eve's  bedside  at 
home,  able  to  control  the  paroxysms  of  pain  by  holding 
her  small  head  grasped  in  both  hands;  she  recalled 
the  strange  persistent  strength  she  had  felt,  sitting 
with  her  at  night,  the  happiness  of  the  moments  when 
the  feverish  pain  seemed  to  run  up  her  own  arms  and 
Eve  relaxed  in  relief,  the  beautiful  unfamiliar  dark- 
ness of  the  midnight  hours,  the  curious  sharp  savour 
of  the  incomprehensible  book  she  had  read  lying  on 
the  floor  by  the  little  beam  of  the  nightlight.  She 
could  surely  do  something  for  Mrs.  Bailey;  meeting 
her  thus  for  the  first  time  without  the  barrier  of 
conversation;  at  least  she  could  pit  her  presence  and 
her  sympathy  against  the  pain.  She  tapped  at  the 
door  of  the  Httle  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 
Presently  a  muffled  voice  sounded  and  she  went  in. 
A  sense  of  release  enfolded  her  as  she  closed  the  door 
of  the  little  room;  it  was  as  if  she  had  stepped  off  the 
edge  of  her  life,  out  into  the  wide  spaces  of  the  world. 
The  room  was  lit  feebly  by  a  small  lamp  turned  low 
within   its  smoky  chimney.     Its  small  space  was  so 

—29— 


DEADLOCK 

crowded  that  for  a  moment  she  could  make  out  no 
recognizable  bedroom  shape;  then  a  figure  rose  and 
she  recognized  Mr.  Gunner  standing  by  a  low  camp 
bedstead.  "It's  Miss  Henderson,"  he  said  quietly. 
There  was  a  murmur  from  the  bed  and  Miriam  bend- 
ing over  it  saw  Mrs.  Bailey's  drawn  face,  fever-flushed, 
with  bright  wild  eyes.  "We  think  she  ought  to  have 
a  doctor,"  murmured  Mr.  Gunner.  "M'm"  said 
Miriam  absently. 

"Good  of  you,"  murmured  Mi-s.  Bailey  thickly. 
Miriam  sat  down  in  the  chair  Mr.  Gunner  had  left 
and  felt  for  Mrs.  Bailey's  hands.  They  were  cold 
and  trembling.  She  clasped  them  firmly  and  Mrs. 
Bailey  sighed.  "Perhaps  you  can  persuade  her," 
murmured  Mr.  Gunner.  "M'm"  Miriam  murmured. 
He  crept  away  on  tiptoe.  Mrs.  Bailey  sighed  more 
heavily.  "Have  you  tried  anything?"  said  Miriam 
dreamily,  out  into  the  crowded  gloom. 

The  room  was  full  of  unsightly  necessaries,  all  old 
and  in  various  stages  of  dilapidation,  the  over-flow  of 
the  materials  that  maintained  in  the  rest  of  the  house 
the  semblance  of  ordered  boarding-house  life.  But 
there  was  something  vital,  even  cheerful  in  the 
atmosphere;  conquering  the  oppression  of  the  crowded 
space.  The  aversion  with  which  she  had  contem- 
plated, at  a  distance,  the  final  privacies  of  the  Baileys 
behind  the  scenes,  was  exorcised.  In  the  house  itself 
there  was  no  life;  but  there  was  brave  life  battling 
in  this  room.  Mrs.  Bailey  would  have  admitted  her 
at  any  time,  with  laughing  apologies.  Now  that  her 
entry  had  been  innocently  achieved,  she  found  herself 
rejoicing  in  the  disorder,  sharing  the  sense  Mrs.  Bailey 
must  have,  every  time  she  retired  to  this  lively  centre, 

—30— 


DEADLOCK 

of  keeping  her  enterprise  going  for  yet  one  more  day. 
She  saw  that  to  Mrs.  Bailey  the  house  must  appear 
as  anything  but  a  failure  and  the  lack  of  boarders 
nothing  but  unaccountable  bad  luck.  "A  compress  or 
hot  fomentations,  hot  fomentations  could  not  do  harm 
and  they  might  be  very  good." 

"Whatever  you  think,  my  dear;  good  of  you,"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Bailey  feebly.  "Not  a  bit,"  said  Miriam 
looking  about  wondering  how  she  should  carry  out,  in 
her  ignorance,  this  mysteriously  suggested  practical 
idea.  There  was  a  small  fire  in  the  little  narrow 
fireplace,  with  a  hob  on  either  side.  Standing  up  she 
caught  sight  of  a  circular  willow  pattern  sink  basin  with 
a  tap  above  it  and  a  cupboard  below  set  in  an  alcove 
behind  a  mound  of  odds  and  ends.  The  room  was 
meant  for  a  sort  of  kitchen  or  scullery;  and  it  had  been 
the  doctors'  only  sitting-room.  How  had  the  four  big 
tall  men,  with  their  table  and  all  their  books,  managed 
to  crowd  themselves  in? 

In  the  dining-room  Sissie  responded  with  uncon- 
cealed astonishment  and  gratitude  to  Miriam's  sug- 
gestions and  bustled  off  for  the  needed  materials, 
lingering,  when  she  brought  them,  to  make  useful 
suggestions,  affectionately  controlling  Mrs.  Bailey's 
feeble  efforts  to  help  in  the  arrangements,  and  staying 
to  supply  Miriam's  needs,  a  little  compact  approving 
presence. 

As  long  as  the  hot  bandages  were  held  to  her  head 
Mrs.  Bailey  seemed  to  find  relief  and  presently  began 
to  murmur  complaints  of  the  trouble  she  was  giving. 
Miriam,  longing  to  sing,  threatened  to  withdraw 
unless  she  would  remain  untroubled  until  she  'was 
better,   or  weary  of  the   treatment.     At  ten   o'clock 

—31— 


DEADLOCK 

she  was  free  from  pain,  but  her  feet  and  limbs  were 
cold. 

"You  ought  to  have  a  pack  all  over,"  said  Miriam 
judicially. 

"That's  what  I  felt  when  you  began,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Bailey. 

"Of  course.  It's  the  even  temperature.  I've 
never  had  one,  but  we  were  all  brought  up  homeo- 
pathically."     Sissie  went  away  to  make  tea. 

"Was  you?"  said  Mrs.  Bailey  drawing  herself  into 
a  sitting  posture.  Miriam  launched  into  eager  de- 
scription of  the  little  chest  with  its  tiny  bottles  of 
pilules  and  tinctures  and  the  small  violet-covered  book 
about  illnesses  strapped  into  its  lid;  the  home-life  all 
about  her  as  she  talked.  .  .  .  Belladonna;  aconite; 
she  was  back  among  her  earhest  recollections,  feehng 
small  and  swollen  and  feverish;  Mrs.  Bailey,  sitting 
up,  with  her  worn  glad  patient  face  seemed  to  her 
more  than  ever  like  her  mother;  and  she  could  not 
believe  that  the  lore  of  the  book  and  the  little  bottles 
did  not  reside  with  her. 

"Aconite,"  said  Mrs.  Bailey,  "that  was  in  the  stuff 
the  doctor  give  me  when  I  was  so  bad  last  year." 
That  was  all  new  and  modern.  Mrs.  Bailey  must  see 
if  she  could  only  rapidly  paint  them  for  her,  the  home 
scenes  all  about  the  room. 

"They  use  those  things  in  the  British  Pha'r- 
macopoeia,  but  they  pile  them  in  in  bucketsful  with 
all  sorts  of  minerals,"  she  said  provisionally,  holding 
to  her  pictures  while  she  pondered  for  a  moment  over 
the  fact  that  she  had  forgotten  until  tonight  that  she 
was  a  homeopath. 

Mr.  Gunner  came  quietly  in  with  Sissie  and  the  tea, 

—32— 


DEADLOCK 

making  a  large  party  distributed  almost  invisibly  in 
the  gloom  beyond  the  circle  of  dim  lamplight.  There 
was  a  joyful  urgency  of  communication  in  the  room. 
But  the  teacups  were  filled  and  passed  round  before 
the  accumulated  intercourse  broke  through  the  silence 
in  a  low-toned  remark.  It  seemd  to  come  from  every- 
one and  to  bear  within  it  all  the  gentle  speech  that  had 
sounded  since  the  world  began;  light  spread  outward 
and  onward  from  the  darkened  room. 

Taking  her  share  in  the  remarks  that  followed, 
Miriam  marvelled.  Unqualified  and  unprepared, 
utterly  undeserving  as  she  felt,  she  was  aware,  within 
the  controlled  tone  of  her  slight  words,  of  something 
that  moved  her,  as  she  listened,  to  a  strange  joy.  It 
was  within  her,  but  not  of  herself;  an  unknown  vibra- 
ting moulding  force.   .   .   . 

When  Sissie  went  away  with  the  tea-things,  Mr. 
Gunner  came  to  the  bedside  to  take  leave.  Sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  near  Miriam's  chair  he  bent 
murmuring;  Miriam  rose  to  go;  Mrs.  Bailey's  hand 
restrained  her.  "I  think  you  know,"  whispered  Mr. 
Gunner,  "what  we  are  to  each  other."  Miriam  made 
no  reply;  there  was  a  golden  suffusion  before  her  eyes, 
about  the  grey  pillow.  Mrs.  Bailey  was  clutching  her 
hand.  She  bent  and  kissed  the  hollow  cheek,  receiving 
on  her  own  a  quick  eager  mother's  kiss,  and  turned  to 
offer  her  free  hand  to  Mr.  Gunner  who  painfully 
wrung  it  in  both  his  own.  Outside  in  the  darkness  St. 
Pancras  clock  was  striking.  She  felt  a  sudden  sadness. 
What  could  they  know  of  each  other?  What  could 
any  man  and  woman  know  of  each  other? 

When  Mr.  Gunner  had  gone  and  she  was  alone 
with   Mrs.   Bailey,   the   trouble   Hfted.     It  was   Mrs. 

—33— 


DEADLOCK 

Bailey  who  had  permitted  it,  she  who  would  steer  and 
guide,  and  she  was  full  of  wisdom  and  strength.  She 
could  unerringly  guide  anyone  through  anything.  But 
how  had  she  arrived  at  permitting  such  an  extra- 
ordinary thing? 

"Poor  boy,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bailey. 

"Why  'poor  boy'?  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said 
Miriam. 

"Well,  it's  a  comfort  to  me  you  think  that;  I've 
worried  meself  ill  over  him.  I've  been  keeping  him 
off  for  over  a  twelvemonth." 

"Well  it's  all  settled  now  so  you  needn't  worry 
any  more." 

"It's  his  age  I  look  to;  he's  only  two  and  twenty," 
flushed  Mrs.  Bailey. 

"He  looks  older  than  that." 

"He  does  look  more  than  his  age,  I  allow;  he  never 
had  any  home;  his  father  married  a  second  time;  he 
says  this  is  the  first  home  he's  had;  he's  never  been 
so  happy."  All  the  time  he  had  been  halting  about 
in  the  evenings  in  the  dining-room,  never  going  out 
and  seeming  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  a  sort  of 
malicious  lying-in-wait  to  make  facetious  remarks,  he 
had  been  feeling  at  home,  happy  at  home,  and  growing 
happier  and  happier.  Poor  little  man,  at  home  in 
nothing  but  the  dining-room  at  Tansley  Street.  .... 
Mrs.  Bailey.  .  .  .  Was  he  good  enough  for  her? 
She  had  not  always  liked  or  even  approved  of  him. 

"Well;  that's  lovely.  Of  course  he  has  been 
happy  here." 

"That's  all  very  well  for  the  past;  but  there's  many 
breakers  ahead.  He  wants  me  to  give  up  and  have 
a  little  home  of  our  own.     But  there's  my  chicks.     I 

—34— 


DEADLOCK 

can't  give  up  till  they're  settled.  I've  told  him  that. 
I  can't  do  less  than  my  duty  by  them.''' 

"Of  course  not.  He's  a  dear.  I  think  he's 
splendid."  But  how  generously  glowing  the  strug- 
gling house  seemed  now;  compared  to  a  life  alone, 
in  some  small  small  corner,  with  Mr.  Gunner.  .  . 

"Bless  'im.  He's  only  a  clurk,  poor  boy,  at 
thirty-five  weekly." 

"Of  course  clerks  don't  make  much,  unless  they 
have  languages.  He  ought  to  learn  one  or  two  lan- 
guages." 

"He's  not  over  strong.  It's  not  money  I'm 
thinking  of — "  she  flushed  and  hesitated  and  then 
said  with  a  girlish  rush,  "I'd  manage;  once  I'm  free 
I'd  manage.  I'd  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for  'im." 
Marvellous,  for  a  little  man  who  would  go  on  writing 
yours  of  yesterday's  date  to  hand  as  per  statement 
enclosed;  nothing  in  his  day  but  his  satisfaction  in  the 
curves  and  flourishes  of  his  handwriting  .  .  .  and  then 
home  comforts,  Mrs.  Bailey  always  there,  growing 
more  worn  and  ill  and  old;  an  old  woman  before  he 
was  thirty. 

"But  that  won't  be  for  a  long  time  yet;  though 
Polly's  doing  splendid." 

"Is  she?" 

"Well,  I  oughtn't  to  boast.  But  they've  wrote  me 
she's  to  be  pupil-teacher  next  year." 

"Polly?" 

"Polly,"  bridled  Mrs.  Bailey  and  laughed  with 
shining  eyes.  "The  chahld's  not  turned  fifteen  yet, 
dear  little  woman  blesser."  Miriam  winced;  poor 
little  Polly  Bailey,  to  die  so  soon,  without  knowing  it. 

"Oh,  that's  magnificent."     Perhaps  it  was  magnif- 

—35— 


DEADLOCK 

icent.  Perhaps  a  Bailey  would  not  feel  cheated  and 
helpless.  Polly  would  be  a  pupil-teacher  perkily, 
remaining  her  same  self,  a  miniature  of  Mrs.  Bailey, 
already  full  of  amused  mysterious  knowledge  and  equal 
to  every  occasion. 

Mrs.  Bailey  smiled  shyly,  "She's  like  her  poor 
mother;  she's  got  a  will  of  her  own."  Miriam  sat 
at  ease  within  the  tide.  .  .  .  Where  did  women  find 
the  insight  into  personality  that  gave  them  such 
extraordinary  prophetic  power?  She  herself  had 
not  an  atom  of  it.  Perhaps  it  was  matronhood;  and 
Mary  hid  all  these  things  in  her  heart.  No;  aunts 
often  had  it,  even  more  than  matrons;  Mrs.  Bailey  was 
so  splendidly  controlled  that  she  was  an  aunt  as  well 
as  a  mother  to  the  children.  She  contemplated  the 
sharply  ravaged  little  head,  reared  and  smiling  above 
the  billows  of  what  people  called  "misfortunes"  by  her 
conscious  and  self-confessed  strength  of  will;  yes,  and 
unconscious  fairness  and  generosity,  reflected  Miriam, 
and  an  immovable  sense  of  justice.  All  these  years 
of  scraping  and  contrivance  had  not  corrupted  Mrs. 
Bailey;  she  ought  to  be  a  judge,  and  not  Mr.  Gunner's 
general  servant.  .  .  .  Justice  is  a  woman;  blindfolded; 
seeing  from  the  inside  and  not  led  away  by  appear- 
ances; men  invent  systems  of  ethics,  but  they  cannot 
weigh  personality;  they  have  no  individuality,  only 
conformity  or  non-conformity  to  abstract  systems;  yet 
it  was  impossible  to  acknowledge  the  power  of  a 
woman,  of  any  woman  she  had  ever  known,  without 
becoming  a  slave;  or  to  associate  with  one,  except  in 
a  time  of  trouble;  but  in  her  deliberate  excursion  into 
this  little  room  she  was  free;  all  her  life  lay  far 
away,   basking   in    freedom;   spreading   out   and   out, 

-36- 


DEADLOCK 

illimitable;  each  space  and  part  a  full  cup  on  which 
no  hand  might  be  laid  ....  that  little  man  was  just 
a  curious  foreign  voice,  which  would  presently  rous«- 
her  impatience  ....  and  just  now  he  had  seemed  so 
near.  .  .  .  Was  she  looking  at  him  with  Mrs.  Bailey's 
eyes?  Mrs.  Bailey  would  say,  "Oh  yes,  I  think  he's  a 
very  nice  little  man."  Beyond  his  distinction  as  a 
well-to-do  boarder,  he  would  have,  in  her  eyes,  nothing 
to  single  him  out;  she  would  respect  his  scholarship, 
but  regarding  it  as  a  quality  peculiar  to  certain  men; 
and  without  the  knowledge  that  it  was  in  part  an 
accident  of  circumstance.  She  would  see  beyond  it; 
she  would  never  be  prostrate  before  it. 

But  the  distant  vision  of  the  free  life  was  not  Mrs. 
Bailey's  vision;  there  was  something  there  she  could 
not  be  made  to  understand,  and  would  in  any  way  there 
were  words  that  tried  to  express  it,  certainly  not 
approve.  Yet  why  did  it  come  so  strongly  here  in  her 
room?     The  sense  of  it  was  here,  somewhere  in  their 

intercourse,    but    she    was    unconscious    of    it 

Miriam  plumbed  about  in  the  clear  centre — ^where 
without  will  or  plan  or  any  shapely  endeavour  in  her 
life,  she  was  yet  so  strangely  accepted  and  indulged. 
Mrs.  Bailey  was  glancing  back  at  her  from  the  depths 
of  her  abode,  her  face  busy  in  control  of  the  rills  of 
laughter  sparkling  in  her  eyes  and  keeping,  Miriam 
knew,  as  she  moved,  hovering,  and  saw  the  fostering 
light  they  shed  upon  the  world,  perpetual  holiday; 
the  reassuring  inexhaustible  substance  of  Mrs.  Bailey's 
being. 

"It's  Sissie  I  worry  about,"  said  Mrs.  Bailey. 
Miriam  attended  curiously.  She's  like  her  dear 
father;  keeps  herself  to  herself  and  goes  on;  she's  a 

—37— 


.i(. 


DEADLOCK 

splendid  little  woman  in  the  house;  but  I  feel  she 
ought  to  be  doing  something  more." 

"She's   awfully  capable,"   said   Miriam. 

"She  is.  There's  nothing  she  can't  turn  her  hand 
to.  She'll  have  the  lock  off  a  door  and  mend  it  and 
put  it  on  again  and  put  in  a  pane  of  glass  neater  than 
a  workman  and  no  mess  or  fuss."  Miriam  sat 
astonished  before  the  expanding  accumulation  of 
qualities. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  should  spare  her;  but  she's 
not  satisfied  here;  I've  been  wondering  if  I  couldn't 
manage  to  put  her  into  the  typing." 

"There  isn't  much  prospect  there,"  recited  Miriam, 
"the  supply  is  bigger  than  the  demand." 

"That  is  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Bailey,  "but  I  see  it 
like  this;  where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way  and  one 
has  to  make  a  beginning."  Mrs.  Bailey  had  made  up 
her  mind.  Quite  soon  Sissie  would  know  typewriting; 
a  marketable  accomplishment;  she  would  rank  higher 
in  the  world  than  a  dental  secretary;  a  lady  typjst 
with  a  knowledge  of  French.  That  would  be  her 
status  in  an  index.  No  doubt  in  time  she  would  learn 
shorthand.  She  would  go  capably  about,  proud  of  her 
profession;  with  a  home  to  live  in,  comfortably  well 
off  on  fifteen  shillings  a  week;  one  of  the  increasing 
army  of  confident  illiterate  young  women  in  the  city; 
no,  Sissie  would  not  be  showy;  she  would  bring  life 
into  some  oflice,  amongst  men  as  illiterate  as  herself; 
as  soon  as  she  had  picked  up  "yours  to  hand"  she 
would  be  reliable  and  valuable.  .1  .  .  Sissie,  with  a 
home,  and  without  putting  forth  any  particular  effort, 
would  have  a  place  in  the  world.   .  .   , 

"I'll  make  some  inquiries,"  said  Miriam  cheerfully. 

-38- 


DEADLOCK 

Mrs.  Bailey  thanked  her  with  weary  eagerness;  she 
was  flushed  and  flagging;  the  evening's  work  was  being 
cancelled  by  the  fascination  which  had  allowed  her  to 
go  on  talking.  She  admitted  a  return  of  her  neuralgia 
and  Miriam,  remorseful  and  weary,  made  her  lie  down 
again.  She  looked  dreadfully  ill;  like  someone  else; 
she  would  go  off  to  sleep  looking  like  someone  else,  or 
lie  until  the  morning,  with  plans  going  round  and  round 
in  her  head  and  get  up,  managing  to  be  herself  until 
breakfast  was  over.  But  all  the  time,  she  had  a  house 
to  be  in.  She  was  Mrs.  Bailey;  a  recognized  centre. 
Miriam  sat  alone,  the  now  familiar  little  room  added 
to  the  strange  collection  of  her  inexplicable  life;  its 
lamplit  walls  were  dear  to  her,  with  the  extraordinary 
same  dearness  of  all  walls  seen  in  tranquillity.  She 
seemed  to  be  responding  to  their  gaze.  Had  she  an- 
swered Mrs.  Bailey's  murmur  about  going  to  bed?  It 
seemed  so  long  ago.  She  sat  until  the  lamp  began  to 
fail  and  Mrs.  Bailey  appeared  to  be  going  to  sleep. 
She  crept  out  at  last  into  the  fresh  still  darkness  of  the 
sleeping  house.  On  the  first  floor  there  was  a  glimmer 
of  blue  light.  It  was  the  street  lamp  shining  in  through 
Mr.  Shatov's  wide-open  empty  room.  When  she 
reached  her  own  room  she  found  that  it  was  one 
o'clock.  Already  he  had  found  his  way  to  some  hor- 
rible haunt.  She  wrapped  her  evening  round  her, 
parrying  the  thought  of  him.  There  should  be  no 
lesson  tomorrow.  She  would  be  out,  having  left  no 
message. 

When  she  came  in  the  next  evening  he  was  in  the 
hall.  He  came  forward  with  his  bearded  courteous 
emphatically  sweeping   foreign  bow;   a   foreign   pro- 

—39— 


DEADLOCK 

fessor  bowing  to  an  audience  he  was  about  to  address. 
"Bitte  verzeihen  Sie,"  he  began,  his  rich  low  tones  a 
little  breathless;  the  gong  blared  forth  just  behind 
him;  he  stood  rooted,  holding  her  with  respectful 
melancholy  gaze  as  his  lips  went  on  forming  their 
German  sentences.  The  clangour  died  down;  people 
were  coming  downstairs  drawing  Miriam's  gaze  as 
he  moved  from  their  pathway  into  the  dining-room, 
still  facing  her  with  the  end  of  his  little  speech  lingering 
nervously  on  his  features.  He  was  in  his  frock-coat 
and  shone  richly  black  and  white  under  the  direct 
lamplight;  he  was  even  more  handsome  than  she  had 
thought,  solidly  beautiful,  glowing  in  shapely  move- 
ment as  he  stood  still  and  gestureless  before  her,  set 
off  by  the  shapelessly  moving,  dinner  drawn  forms 
passing  into  the  dining-room.  She  smiled  in  response 
to  whatever  he  may  have  said  and  wondered,  having 
apologized  for  yesterday.  In  what  way  he  would 
announce  to  her  the  outside  engagement  for  this 
evening  for  which  he  was  so  shiningly  prepared. 
"Zo,"  he  said  gravely,  "if  you  are  now  free,  I  will 
almost  immediately  come  up ;  we  shall  not  wait  till 
eight  o'clock."  Miriam  bowed  in  response  to  the 
sweeping  obeisance  with  which  he  turned  into  the 
dining-room,  and  ran  upstairs.  He  came  up  before 
the  end  of  the  first  course,  before  she  had  had  time 
to  test  in  the  large  overmantel  the  shape  of  her  hair 
that  had  seemed  in  the  little  mirror  upstairs  acciden- 
tally good,  quite  like  the  hair  of  someone  who 
mysteriously  knew  how  to  get  good  effects. 

"I   have  been  sleeping,"  he  said  in  wide   cheerful 
tones  as  he  crossed  the'  room,"  all  day  until  now.     I 

— 40 — 


DEADLOCK 

am  a  little  stupid;  but  I  have  very  many  things  to  say 
you.  First  I  must  say  you,"  he  said  more  gravely 
and  stood  arrested  with  his  coat  tails  in  his  hands,  in 
front  of  the  chair  opposite  to  hers  at  the  little  table, 
"that  your  Emerson  isi  woiZ-wonderful." 

Miriam  could  not  believe  she  had  heard  the  deep- 
toned  emphatic  words.  She  stared  stupidly  at  his 
unconscious  thoughtful  brow;  for  a  strange  moment 
feeling  her  own  thoughts  and  her  own  outlook  behind 
it.  She  felt  an  instant's  pang  of  disappointment;  the 
fine  brow  had  lost  something,  seemed  familiar,  almost 
homely.  But  an  immense  relief  was  surging  through 
her.  No — Ree — ally,  most-wonderful,"  he  reiter- 
ated with  almost  reproachful  emphasis,  sitting  down 
with  his  head  eagerly  forward  between  his  shoulders, 
waiting  for  her  response.  "Yes,  isn't  he?"  she  said 
encouragingly  and  waited  in  a  dream  while  he  sat  back 
and  drew  little  volumes  from  his  pocket,  his  white 
eyelids  downcast  below  his  frowning  brow.  Would 
he  qualify  his  praise?  Had  he  read  enough  to  come 
upon  any  of  the  chills  and  contradictions?  However 
this  might  be,  Emerson  had  made  upon  this  scholarly 
foreigner,  groping  in  him  with  his  scanty  outfit  of 
language,  an  overwhelming  Impression.  Her  own 
lonely  overwhelming  Impression  was  justified.  The 
eyes  came  up  again,  gravely  earnest.  "No,"  he  said, 
"I  find  It  most  difficult  to  express  the  profound  im- 
pression this  reading  have  made  on  me." 

"He  Isn't  a  bit  original,"  said  Miriam  surprised  by 
her  unpremeditated  conclusion,  "when  you  read 
him  you  feel  as  if  you  were  following  your  own 
thoughts." 

—41— 


DEADLOCK 

"That  is  so;  he  is  not  himself  philosophe;  I  would 
call  him  rather,  poete;  a  most  remarkable  quality  of 
English,  great  dignity  and  with  at  the  same  time  a 
most  perfect  simplicity." 

"He  understands  everything;  since  I  have  had  that 
book  I  have  not  wanted  to  read  anything  else  .... 
except  Maeterlinck,"  she  murmured  in  afterthought, 
"and  in  a  way  he  is  the  same." 

"I  do  not  know  this  writer,"  said  Mr.  Shatov,  "and 
what  you  say  is  perhaps  not  quite  good.  But  in  a 
manner  I  can  have  some  sympa-thaytic  apprysiacion 
with  this  remark.  I  have  read  yesterday  the  whole 
day;  on  different  omnibuses.  Ah.  It  was  for  me 
wo5^wonderful." 

"Well,  I  always  feel,  all  the  time,  all  day,  that  if 
people  would  only  read  Emerson  they  would  under- 
stand, and  not  be  like  they  are,  and  that  the  only  way 
to  make  them  understand  what  one  means  would  be 
reading  pieces  of  Emerson." 

"That  is  true;  why  should  you  not  do  it?" 

"Quotations  are  feeble;  you  always  regret 
making  them." 

"No;  I  do  not  agree,"  said  Mr.  Shatov  devoutly 
smiling,  "you  are  wrong." 

"Oh,  but  think  of  the  awful  people  who  quote 
Shakespeare." 

"Ach-ma.  People  are,  in  general,  silly.  But  I 
must  tell  you  you  should  not  cease  to  read  until  you 
shall  have  read  at  least  some  Russian  writers.  If  you 
possess  sensibility  for  language  you  shall  find  that 
Russian  is  wo5/-beautiful;  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  European  language;  it  is,  indubitably,  the 
most  rich." 

—42— 


DEADLOCK 

"It  can't  be  richer  than  English." 

"Certainly  it  is  richer  than  English,  I  shall  prove 
this  to  you,  even  with  dictionary.  You  shall  find 
that  it  occur,  over  and  over,  that  where  in  English  is 
one  word,  in  Russian  is  six  or  seven  different,  all 
synonyms,  but  all  with  most  delicate  individual 
shades  of  nuance  ....  the  abstractive  expression 
is  there,  as  in  all  civilized  European  languages,  but 
there  is  also  in  Russian  the  most  immense  variety 
of  natural  expressions,  coming  forth  from  the  strong 
feeling  of  the  Russian  nature  to  all  these  surrounding 
influences;  each  word  opens  to  a  whole  apercu  in 
this  sort  ....  and  what  is  most  significant  is, 
the  great  richness,  in  Russia,  of  the  people-language  i 
there  is  no  other  people-language  similar;  there 
is  in  no  one  language  so  immense  a  variety  of  tender 
diminutives  and  intimate  expressions  of  all  natural 
things.  None  is  so  rich  in  sound  or  so  marvellously 
powerfully  colorful.  .  .  .  That  is  Russian.  Part  of 
the  reason  is  no  doubt  to  find  in  the  immense  paysage; 
Russia  is  zo  vast;  it  is  inconceivable  for  any  non-Rus- 
sian. There  is  also  the  ethnological  explanation,  the 
immense  vigour  of  the  people." 

Miriam  went  forward  in  a  dream.  As  Mr.  Shatov's 
voice  went  on,  she  forgot  everything  but  the  need  to 
struggle  to  the  uttermost  against  the  quiet  strange 
attack  upon  English;  the  double  line  of  evidence 
seemed  so  convincing  and  was  for  the  present  unanswer- 
able from  any  part  of  her  small  store  of  knowledge; 
but  there  must  be  an  answer;  meantime  the  suggestion 
that  the  immense  range  of  English  was  partly  due  to 
its  unrivalled  collection  of  technical  terms,  derived 
from    English    science,    commerce,    sports,    "all    the 

—43— 


DEADLOCK 

practical  life-manoeuvres,"  promised  vibrating  reflec- 
tion, later. 

But  somewhere  outside  her  resentful  indignation, 
she  found  herself  reaching  forward  unresentfully 
towards  something  very  far-off,  and  as  the  voice  went 
on,  she  felt  the  touch  of  a  new  strange  presence  in  her 
Europe.  She  listened,  watching  intently,  far-off, 
hearing  now  only  a  voice,  moving  on,  without  con- 
nected meaning.  .  .  .  The  strange  thing  that  had 
touched  her  was  somewhere  within  the  voice;  the 
sound  of  Russia.  So  much  more  strange,  so  much 
wider  and  deeper  than  the  sound  of  German  or  French 
or  any  of  the  many  tongues  she  had  heard  in  this 
house,  the  inpouring  impression  was  yet  not  alien. 
It  was  not  foreign.  There  was  no  barrier  between 
the  life  in  it  and  the  sense  of  life  that  came  from 
within.  It  expressed  that  sense;  in  the  rich,  deep 
various  sound  and  colour  of  its  inflections,  in  the 
strange  abruptly  controlled  shapeliness  of  the  phrases 
of  tone  carrying  the  whole  along,  the  voice  was  the 
very  quality  he  had  described,  here,  alive;  about  her 
in  the  room.  It  was,  she  now  suddenly  heard,  the 
disarming,  unforeign  thing  in  the  voice  of  kind 
commercial  little  Mr.  Rodkin.  Then  there  was  an 
answer.  There  was  something  in  common  between 
English  and  this  strange  language  that  stood  alone  in 
Europe.  She  came  back  and  awoke  to  the  moment, 
weary.  Mr.  Shatov  had  not  noticed  her  absence.  He 
was  talking  about  Russia.  Unwillingly  she  gave  her 
flagging  attention  to  the  Russia  already  in  her  mind; 
a  strip  of  silent  sunlight  snow,  just  below  Finland, 
St.  Petersburg  in  the  midst  of  it,  rounded  squat  square 
white  architecture  piled  solidly  beneath  a  brilliant  sky, 

—44— 


DEADLOCK 

low  sledges  smoothly  gliding,  drawn  by  three  horses, 
bell-spanned,  running  wildly  abreast,  along  the  silent 
streets  or  out  into  the  deeper  silence  of  dark,  snow-clad 
wolf-haunted  forests  that  stretched  indefinitely  down 
the  map;  and  listened  as  he  drew  swift  pictures,  now 
north,  now  south.  Vast  outlines  emerged  faintly,  and 
here  and  there  a  patch  remained,  vivid.  She  saw  the 
white  nights  of  the  northern  winter,  felt  the  breaking 
through  of  spring  in  a  single  day.  Whilst  she  lingered 
at  Easter  festivals  in  churches,  all  rich  deep  colouf 
blazing  softly  through  clouds  of  incense,  and  imagined 
the  mighty  sound  of  Russian  singing,  she  was  carried 
away  to  villages  scattered  amongst  great  tracts  of 
forest,  unimaginable  distances  of  forest,  the  vast 
forests  of  Germany  small  and  homely  .  .  .  each 
village  a  brilliant  miniature  of  Russia,  in  every  hut  a 
holy  image ;  brilliant  colouring  of  stained  carved  wood, 
each  peasant  a  striking  picture,  filling  the  eye  in  the 
clear  light,  many  "most-dignified";  their  garments 
coloured  with  natural  dyes,  "the  most  pure  plant-stain 
colours,"  deep  and  intense.  She  saw  the  colours,  mat 
and  sheenless,  yet  full  of  light,  taking  the  light  in  and 
in,  richly,  and  turned  grievously  to  the  poor  cheap 
tones  in  all  the  western  shops,  clever  shining  chemical 
dyes,  endless  teasing  variety,  without  depth  or  feeling, 
cheating  the  eye  of  life;  and  back  again  homesick  to 
the  rich  tones  of  reality.  .  .  .  She  passed  down  the 
winding  sweep  of  the  Volga,  a  consumptive  seeking 
health,  and  out  Into  the  southern  plains  where  wild 
horses  roamed  at  large,  and  stayed  at  a  lodge  facing 
towards  miles  and  miles  of  shallow  salt  water,  sea-gull 
haunted,  and  dotted  with  floating  Islands  of  reeds,  so 
matted  and  interwoven  that  one  could  get  out  from 

—45— 


DEADLOCK 

the  little  shallow  leaky  fishing-boat  and  walk  upon 
them;  and  over  all  a  crystal  air  so  life-giving  that  one 
recovered.  She  heard  the  peasants  in  the  south 
singing  in  strong  deep  voices,  dancing  by  torchlight  a 
wild  dance  with  a  name  that  described  the  dance.  .  .  . 
Throughout  the  recital  were  vivid  words,  each  a 
picture  of  the  thing  it  expressed.  She  would  never 
forget  them.  Russia  was  recognizable.  So  was  every 
language  ....  but  no  foreign  sound  had  brought 
her  such  an  effect  of  strength  and  musical  beauty  and 
expressiveness  combined.  That  was  it.  It  was  the 
strange  number  of  things  that  were  together  in  Russian 
that  was  so  wonderful.  In  the  end,  back  again  in 
England,  sitting  in  the  cold  dilapidated  room  before 
the  table  of  little  books,  weary,  opposite  Mr.  Shatov 
comfortably  groaning  and  stretching,  his  eyes  already 
brooding  in  pursuit  of  something  that  would  presently 
turn  into  speech,  she  struggled  feebly  with  a  mournful 
uneasiness  that  had  haunted  the  whole  of  the  irrevoc- 
able expansion  of  her  consciousness.  A  German^  not 
a  Russian  ethnologist,  and  therefore  without  prejudice, 
had  declared  that  the  Russians  were  the  strongest 
kinetic  force  in  Europe.  He  proved  ^himself  dis- 
interested by  saying  that  the  English  came  next.  The 
English  were  "simple  and  fundamentally  sound." 
Not  intelligent;  but  healthy  in  will,  which  the  Russians 
were  not.  Then  why  were  the  Russians  moi^e 
forceful?  What  was  kinetic  force?  And  .  .  .  . 
mystery  ....  the  Russians  themselves  knew  what 
they  were  like.  "There  is  in  Russia  except  in  the 
governing  and  bourgeois  classes  almost  no  hypocrisy." 
What  was  kinetic.   .   .   .  And  religion  was  an  "actual 

force"  in  Russia!     "What  is  ki " 

-4^ 


DEADLOCK 

"Ah  but  you  shall  at  least  read  some  of  our  great 
Russian  authors  ....  at  least  Tourgainyeff  and 
Tolstoy." 

"Of  course  I  have  heard  of  Tolstoy." 

"Ah,  but  you  shall  read.  He  has  a  most  profound 
knowledge  of  human  psychology;  the  most  marvellous 
touches.  In  that  he  rises  to  universality.  Tour- 
gainyeff is  more  pure  Russian,  less  to  understand 
outside  Russia;  more  academical;  but  he  shall  reveal 
you  most  admirably  the  Russian  aristocrat.  He  is 
cynic-satirical." 

"Then  he  can't  reveal  anything,"  said  Miriam. 
Here  it  was  again;  Mr.  Shatov,  too,  took  satire  quite 
unquestioningly;  thought  it  a  sort  of  achievement, 
worthy  of  admiration.  Perhaps  if  she  could  restrain 
her  anger,  she  would  hear  at  least  in  some  wonderful 
explanatory  continental  phrase,  what  satire  really  was, 
and  be  able  to  settle  with  herself  why  she  knew  it  was 
in  the  long  run,  waste  of  time;  why  the  word  satirist 
suggested  someone  with  handsome  horns  and  an  evil 
clever  eye  and  thin  cold  fingers.  Thin.  Swift  was 
probably  fearfully  thin.  Mr.  Shatov  was  smiling 
incredulously.  If  he  went  on  to  explain  she  would 
miss  the  more  important  worrying  thing.  Novels.  It 
was  extraordinary  that  he  should.   .   .   . 

"I  don't  care  for  novels.  ...  I  can't  see  what  they 
are  about.  They  seem  to  be  an  endless  fuss  about 
nothing." 

"That  may  apply  in  certain  cases.  But  it  is  a  too 
extreme  statement." 

"It  is  extreme.  Why  not?  How  can  a  statement 
be  too  extreme  if  it  is  true?" 

"I  cannot  express  an  opinion  on  English  novelistic 

—47— 


DEADLOCK 

writings.  But  of  Tolstoy  it  is  certainly  not  true. 
No;  it  is  not  in  general  true  that  in  fictional  representa- 
tions there  is  no  actuality.  I  have  read  with  my  first 
English  teacher  in  Moscow  a  story  of  your  Myne- 
Reade.  There  was  in  this  story  a  Scotch  captain  who 
remained  for  me  most  typical  British.  He  was  very 
fine  this  chap.  This  presentation  here  made  me  the 
more  want  what  I  have  want  always  since  a  boy;  to 
come  to  England."  Was  Mayne  Reade  a  novelist? 
Those  boys'  stories  were  glorious.  But  they  were 
about  the  sea;  and  the  fifth  form  ...  "a  noble 
three-bladed  knife,  minus  the  blades".   .   .  . 

"There's  a  thing  called  the  Ebb-Tide,"  she  began, 
wondering  how  she  could  convey  her  impression  of 
the  tropical  shore;  but  Mr.  Shatov's  attention,  though 
polite,  was  wandering,  "I've  read  some  of  Gorki's 
short  stories,"  she  finished  briskly.  They  were  not 
novels;  they  were  alive  in  some  way  English  books 
were  not.     Perhaps  all  Russian  books  were.   .   . 

"Ah  Gorrrki.  He  is  come  out  direct  from  the 
peasantry;  very  powerfully  strange  and  rough  presenta- 
tions.     He  may  be  called  the  apostle  of  misere." 

....  the  bakery  and  the  yard;  the  fighting  eagles, 
the  old  man  at  the  prow  of  the  boat  with  his  daughter- 
in-law.  .  .  .  All  teaching  something.  How  did 
people  find  it  out? 

"But  really  I  must  tell  you  of  yesterday,"  said  Mr. 
Shatov  warmly.  "I  have  made  a  Schach-Partei. 
That  was  for  me  vej-y  good.  It  include  also  a  certain 
exploration  of  London.  That  is  for  me  I  need  not 
say  most  fascinatink."  Miriam  listened  eagerly. 
The  time  was  getting  on;  they  had  done  no  work. 
She  had  not  once  corrected  him  and  he  was  plunging 

-4a- 


DEADLOCK 

Into  his  preliminary  story  as  If  their  hour  had  not 
yet  begun.     She  was  to  share.   .   . 

"There  was  on  one  of  these  many  omnibuses  a 
gentleman  who  tell  me  where  in  London  I  shall  obtain 
a  genuine  coffee.  Probably  you  know  it  is  at  this 
Vienna  Cafe,  in  Holeborne.  You  do  not  know  this 
place?  Strange.  It  is  quite  near  to  you  all  the  time. 
Almost  at  your  British  Museum.  Ah;  this  gentleman 
has  told  me  too  a  most  funny  story  of  a  German  who 
go  there  proudly  talking  English.  He  was  waiting; 
ach  they  are  very  slow  in  this  place,  and  at  last  he 
shouts  for  everyone  to  hear,  Vaiterl  Venn  shall  I 
become  a  cup  of  coffee?" 

Miriam  laughed  her  delight  apprehensively. 
"Ah,  I  like  very  much  these  stories,"  he  was  saying, 
his  eyes  dreamily  absent,  she  feared,  on  a  memory- 
vista  of  similar  anecdotes.  But  In  a  moment  he  was 
alive  again  in  his  adventure.  "It  was  at  London 
Bridge.  I  have  come  all  the  way,  walkingly,  to  this 
Cafe.  It  is  a  strange  place.  Really  glahnend; 
Viennese;  very  dirrty.  But  coffee  most  excellent;  just 
as  on  the  Continent.  You  shall  go  there;  you  will  see. 
Upstairs  it  is  most  dreadful.  More  dirrty;  and  in  an 
intense  gloom  of  smoke,  very  many  men,  ah  they  are 
dreadful,  I  could  not  describe  to  you.  Like  monkeys; 
but  all  in  Schach-partels.  That  shall  be  very  good 
for  me.  I  am  most  enthusiastic  with  this  game  since 
a  boy." 

"Billiards?" 

Why  should  he  look  so  astonished  and  Impatiently 
explain  so  reproachfully  and  Indulgently?  She 
grasped  the  meaning  of  the  movements  of  his  hands. 
He  was  a  chess-player  "a  game  much  older — uralt — 

—49— 


DEADLOCK 

and  the  most  mental,  the  only  true  abstractive  game." 
How  differently  an  English  chess-player  would  have 
spoken.  She  regarded  his  eager  contained  liveliness. 
Russian  chess-players  remained  alive.  Was  chess 
mental?  Pure  tactics.  Should  she  declare  that  chess 
was  a  dreadful  boring  indulgence,  leading  nowhere? 
Perhaps  he  would  be  able  to  show  her  that  this  was 
not  so.  .  .  .  Why  do  the  Germans  call  two  people 
playing  chess  a  chess-party?  "I  have  met  there  a 
man,  a  Polish  doctor.  We  have  made  party  and  have 
play  until  the  Cafe  close,  when  we  go  to  his  room 
and  continue  there  to  play  till  the  morning.  Ah, 
it  was  most-beautiful." 

"Had  you  met  him  before?" 

"Oh  no.  He  is  in  London;  stewdye-ink  medicine." 
"Sti/^J)'ing,"  said  Miriam  impatiently,  lost  in 
incredulous  contemplation.  It  could  not  be  true  that 
he  had  sat  all  night  playing  chess  with  a  stranger. 
If  it  were  true,  they  must  both  be  quite  insane  .... 
the  door  was  opening.  Sissie's  voice,  and  Mr.  Shatov 
getting  up  with  an  eager  polite  smile.  Footsteps 
crossing  the  room  behind  her;  Mr.  Shatov  and  a  tall 
man  shaking  hands  on  the  hearthrug;  two  inextricable 
v'oices;  Mr.  Shatov's  presently  emerging  towards  her, 
deferentially,  "I  present  you  Dr.  Veslovski."  The 
Polish  doctor,  gracefully  bowing  from  a  cold  narrow 
height,  Mr.  Shatov,  short,  dumpy,  deeply-radiant  little 
friend,  between  them;  making  a  little  speech,  turning 
from  one  to  the  other.  The  Polish  head  was  reared 
again  on  its  still  cold  grey  height;  undisturbed.  .  .  . 
Perfect.  Miriam  had  nev^er  seen  anything  so  perfectly 
beautiful.  Every  line  of  the  head  and  face  harmo- 
nious;  the   pointed  beard   finishing  the  lines  with  an 

—50— 


DEADLOCK 

expressiveness  that  made  it  also  a  feature,  one  with 
the  rest.  Even  the  curious  long  narrow  capless  flatly- 
lying  foreign  boots,  furrowed  with  mud-stiffened 
cracks  and  the  narrowly  cut,  thin,  shabby  grey  suit 
shared  the  distinction  of  the  motionless  reined-in  head. 
Polish  beauty.  If  that  were  Polish  beauty  the  Poles 
were  the  most  beautiful  people  in  Europe.  Polish; 
the  word  suggested  the  effect,  its  smooth  liquid  sheen, 
sinuous  and  graceful  without  weakness  ....  the 
whole  world  was  at  home  in  the  eyes;  horribly 
beautiful,  abysses  of  fathomless  foreign  .  .  .  any 
kind  of  known  happenings  were  unthinkable  behind 
those  eyes  ....  yet  he  was  here;  come  to  play  chess 
with  Mr.  Shatov  who  had  not  expected  him  until 
Sunday,  but  would  go  now  immediately  with  her  per- 
mission, to  fetch  his  set  from  upstairs.  She  lingered 
as  he  hurried  away,  glancing  at  the  little  books  on  the 
table.  The  Emerson  was  not  among  them.  The 
invisible  motionless  figure  on  the  hearthrug  had 
brought  her  a  message  she  had  forgotten  in  her  annoy- 
ance at  his  intrusion.  Going  from  the  room  towards 
his  dim  reflection  in  the  mirror  near  the  door  she 
approached  the  waiting  thought — Mr.  Shatov's  voice 
broke  in,  talking  eagerly  to  Mrs.  Bailey  on  the  floor 
below.  From  the  landing  she  heard  him  beg  that  it 
might  be  some  large  vessel,  quite  voll  tea ;  some  drapery 
to  enfold  it,  and  that  the  gazz  might  be  left  alight. 
They  were  going  to  play  chess,  through  the  night,  in 
that  cold  room  .  .  .  but  the  thought  was  gladly 
there.  The  Polish  doctor's  presence  had  confirmed 
Mr.  Shatov's  story.  It  had  not  been  a  young  man's 
tale  to  cover  an  escapade. 


-51- 


CHAPTER  II 

SHE  hurried  through  her  Saturday  morning's 
work,  trying  to  keep  warm.  Perhaps  it  was 
nervousness  and  excitement  about  the  afternoon's 
appointment  that  made  her  seem  so  cold.  At  the 
end  of  her  hour's  finicking  work  in  Mr.  Hanock's 
empty  fireless  room,  amongst  cold  instruments  and 
chilly  bottles  of  chemicals  she  was  cold  through. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  house  but  Mr.  Leyton  and 
the  cousin;  nothing  to  support  her  against  the  coming 
ordeal.  Mr.  Leyton  had  had  an  empty  morning  and 
spent  it  busily  scrubbing  and  polishing  instruments  in 
his  warm  little  room;  retiring  towards  lunch  time 
to  the  den  fire  with  a  newspaper.  Shivering  over  her 
ledgers  in  the  cold  window  space,  she  bitterly  resented 
her  inability  to  go  out  and  get  warm  in  an  A.B.C. 
before  meeting  Mr.  Shatov  in  the  open.  Impossible. 
It  could  not  be  afforded;  though  this  morning  all  the 
absolutely  essential  work  could  be  finished  by  one 
o'clock.  It  was  altogether  horrible.  She  was  not 
sure  that  she  was  even  supposed  to  stay  for  lunch  on 
Saturday.  The  day  ended  at  one  o'clock;  unless  she 
were  kept  by  some  urgent  business,  there  was  no  excuse. 
Today  she  must  have  finished  everything  before 
lunch  to  keep  her  appointment.  It  could  not  be 
helped;  and  at  least  there  was  no  embarrassment 
in   the   presence   of   Mr.    Leyton    and   the   boy.     She 

—52— 


DEADLOCK 

would  even  lock  up  and  put  on  her  outdoor  things 
and  go  down  in  them.  It  would  not  occur  to  them 
that  she  need  not  have  stayed  to  lunch  ....  her 
spirits  rose  as  she  moved  about  putting  things  in  the 
safe.  She  dressed  in  Mr.  Leyton's  warm  room, 
washing  her  hands  in  very  hot  water,  thawing,  getting 
warm  ....  the  toque  looked  nice  in  his  large  mirror, 
quite  stylish,  not  so  home  made  .  .;  .  worldly  people 
always  had  lunch  in  their  outdoor  things,  even  when 
they  were  staying  in  a  house.  Sarah  said  people 
ought  always  to  wear  hats,  especially  with  evening 
dress  .  .  .  picture  hats,  with  evening  dress,  made 
pictures.  It  was  true,  they  would,  when  you  thought 
of  it.  But  Sarah  had  found  it  out  for  herself;  without 
opportunities;  it  came,  out  of  her  mind  through  her 
artistic  eyes.  .  .  .  Miriam  recalled  smart  middle- 
aged  women  at  the  Corries,  appearing  at  lunch  in  ex- 
traordinary large  hats,  when  they  had  not  been  out; 
that  was  the  reason.  It  helped  them  to  carry  things 
off;  made  them  talk  well  and  quickly,  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  they  had  just  rushed  in  from  somewhere  or 
were  just  going  to  rush  off.  .  .  .  She  surveyed  her- 
self once  more.  It  was  true ;  lunch  even  with  Mr.  Ley- 
ton  and  the  cousin  would  be  easier  with  the  toque  and 
her  black  coat  open  showing  the  white  neckerchief. 
It  gave  an  impression  of  hurry  and  gaiety.  She  was 
quite  ready  and  looked  about  for  entertainment 
for  the  remaining  moments.  Actually;  a  book  lying 
open  on  Mr.  Leyton's  table,  a  military  drill-book  of 
course.  No.  What  was  this.  Wondrous  Woman, 
by  J.  B.  G.  Smithson.  Why  so  many  similar  English 
initials?  Jim,  Bill,  George,  a  superfluity  of  mannlsh- 
ness  ...   an  attack  of  course;  she  scanned  pages  and 

—53— 


DEADLOCK 

headings;  chapter  upon  chapter  of  peevish  facetious- 
ness;  the  whole  book  written  deliberately  against 
women.  Her  heart  beat  angrily.  What  was  Mr. 
Leyton  doing  with  such  a  book?  Where  had  it  come 
from?  She  read  swiftly,  grasping  the  argument. 
The  usual  sort  of  thing;  worse,  because  it  was  collo- 
quial, rushing  along  in  modem  everyday  language 
and  in  some  curious  way  not  badly  written.   .   .   . 

Because  some  women  had  corns,  feminine  beauty 
was  a  myth;  because  the  world  could  do  without  Mrs. 
Hemans'  poetry,  women  should  confine  their  attention 
to  puddings  and  babies.  The  infernal  complacent 
cheek  of  it.  This  was  the  kind  of  thing  middle-class 
men  read.  Unable  to  criticize  it,  they  thought  it  witty 
and  unanswerable.  That  was  the  worst  of  it.  Books 
of  this  sort  were  read  without  anyone  there  to  point 
things  out.  ...  It  ought  to  be  illegal  to  publish  a 
book  by  a  man  without  first  giving  it  to  a  woman 
to  annotate.  But  what  was  the  answer  to  men  who 
called  women  inferior  because  they  had  not  invented 
or  achieved  in  science  or  art?  On  whose  authority 
had  men  decided  that  science  and  art  were  greater 
than  anything  else?  The  world  could  not  go  on  until 
this  question  had  been  answered.  Until  then,  until 
it  had  been  clearly  explained  that  men  were  always 
and  always  partly  wrong  in  all  their  ideas,  life  would 
be  full  of  poison  and  secret  bitterness.  .  .  Men  fight 
about  their  philosophies  and  religions,  there  is  no 
certainty  in  them;  but  their  contempt  for  women 
is  flawless  and  unanimous.  Even  Emerson  .  .  .  . 
positive  and  negative,  north  and  south,  male  and 
female  .  .  .  why  negative?  Maeterlinck  gets  near- 
est in  knowing  that  women  can  live,  hardly  at  all,  with 

—54— 


DEADLOCK 

men,  and  wait,  have  always  been  waiting,  for  men  to 
come  to  life.  How  can  men  come  to  life;  always 
fussing?  How  could  the  man  who  wrote  this  book? 
Even  if  it  were  publicly  burned  and  he  were  made 
to  apologize;  he  would  still  go  about  asquint  .  .  . 
lunch  was  going  to  be  late,  just  today,  of  course,  .   .   . 

"I  sayr 

''''What  do  you  say,"  responded  Miriam  without 
looking  up  from  her  soup.  Mr.  Leyton  had  a  topic; 
she  could  keep  it  going  with  half  her  attention  and 
go  restfully  on,  fortifying  herself  for  the  afternoon. 
She  would  attack  him  about  the  book  one  day  next 
week.   .   .  . 

"I  say.     What  say  you  George?" 

"Me?  All  right.  I  say,  I  say,  I  say,  anything  you 
like  m'lord." 

Miriam  looked  up.  Mr.  Leyton  was  gazing  and 
grinning. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  snapped.  His  eyes  were 
on  her  toque. 

''Where  did  you  get  that  hat?  Where  did  you 
get  that  tile,"  sang  the  cousin  absently,  busy  with 
his  lunch. 

"I  made  it  if  you  must  know,"  said  Miriam.  The 
cousin  looked  across;  large  expressionless  opinionless 
eyes. 

"Going  out  in  it?"  What  was  the  matter;  Mr. 
Leyton  had  never  noticed  anything  of  hers  before; 
either  it  was  too  awful,  or  really  rather  effective  and 
he  unconsciously  resented  the  fact  of  her  going  about 
in  an  effect. 

"Why  not?" 

"Well;  looks  rather  like  ?.  musical  comedy." 

—ss— 


DEADLOCK 

"Cheek,"  observed  the  cousin;  "I  do  call  that  cool 
cheek;  you're  bahny,  Leyton."  Mr.  Leyton  looked 
no  more;  that  was  his  genuine  brotherly  opinion; 
he  thought  the  toque  showy.  It  was  the  two  wings, 
meeting  in  the  middle  of  the  front;  he  meant  panto- 
mime ;  he  did  not  know  the  wings  were  cheap ;  he  was 
shocked  by  the  effectiveness;  it  was  effective;  cheap 
and  hateful;  but  it  suited  her;  pantomime  effects  were 
becoming.     Where  was  the  objection? 

"That's  all  right.  I'm  glad.  I  like  musical 
comedies." 

"Oh;  if  you're  satisfied.  If  you  don't  mind  look- 
ing risky." 

"I  say,  look  here  old  man,  steady  on,"  blushed 
the  cousin. 

"Well.     What  do  you  think  yourself?     Come  on." 

"I  think  it's  jolly  pretty." 

"/  think  it's  jolly  fastr 

Miriam  was  quite  satisfied.  The  cousin's  opinion 
went  for  nothing;  a  boy  would  like  pantomime  effects. 
But  the  hat  was  neither  ugly  nor  dowdy.  She  would 
be  able  to  tear  down  Oxford  Street,  no  matter  how 
ugly  the  cold  made  her  feel,  looking  fast.  It  would 
help  her  to  carry  off  meeting  Mr.  Shatov.  He  would 
not  notice  hats.  But  the  extraordinary,  rather  touch- 
ing thing  was  that  Mr.  Leyton  should  trouble  at  all. 
As  if  she  belonged  to  his  world  and  he  were  in  some 
way  responsible, 

"All  right  Mr.  Leyton;  it's  fast;  whatever  that 
may  mean." 

"Old  Leyton  thinks  hats  ought  to  be  slow." 

"Look  here  young  fellow  me  lad,  you  teach 
your " 

-56- 


DEADLOCK 

"Great-grandfather  not  to  be  rude." 

"I  fail  to  see  the  rudeness;  I've  merely  expressed 
an  opinion  and  I  believe  Miss  Henderson  agrees 
with  it." 

"Oh  absolutely;  ab-so/w^^-ly;"  chanted  Miriam 
scornfully.  "Pray  don't  worry  about  the  pace  of  my 
millinery  Mr.  Leyton."  That  was  quite  good,  like 
a  society  novel.  .   .   . 

"Well  as  I  say  if  you're  satisfied/' 

"Ah.  That's  another  matter.  The  next  time  I 
want  a  hat  I'll  go  to  Bond  Street.     So  easy  and  simple." 

"Seen  the  paper  today,  George?" 

"Paper?     Noospaper?     No   time." 

"Seen  the  B.  M.  J.?" 

"No  sir." 

"And  you  an  aspiring  medico." 

"Should  be  an  expiring  medico,"  yodelled  George 
"if  I  read  all  those  effusions." 

"Well.     More  disclosures  from  Schenck." 

"Who's  he,  when  he's  at  home?" 

"You  know.     Schenck,  man;  Schenk.     You  know." 

"Oh,  sorry;  all  right.  What's  he  babbling 
about  now?" 

"Same  thing;  only  more  of  it,"  giggled  Mr.  Leyton. 

"If  it's  half  past  I  must  go,"  announced  Miriam 
peremptorily.     Two  watches  came  out. 

"Then  I  advise  you  to  hook  it  pretty  sharp;  it's 
twenty  to.  You'd  better  read  that  article,  my  son." 
Miriam  folded  her  serviette. 

"Righto.      Don't  worry." 

^Why  all  this  mystery?  Good  morning,"  said 
Miriam  departing. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  two  voices.  Mr.  Leyton 
—57— 


DEADLOCK 

held  the  door  open  and  raised  his  voice  to  follow  her 
up  the  stairs.  "We're  discussing  matters  somewhat 
beyond  your  ken." 

She  could  not  stay.  She  could  not  have  tackled 
him  if  she  had  stayed.  Anger  was  perhaps  as  funny 
as  embarrassment.  He  would  have  been  shocked  at 
the  idea  of  her  quietly  considering  the  results  of 
Schenck's  theory,  if  it  proved  to  be  true;  beyond  her 
ken,  indeed.  It  was  hateful  to  have  to  leave  that; 
he  ought  to  be  robbed  of  the  one  thing  that  he  imagined 
gave  him  an  advantage  in  the  presence  of  women.  The 
women  in  his  world  would  be  embarrassed  by  the  dis- 
cussion of  anything  to  do  with  the  reproduction 
of  the  race.  Why?  Why  were  the  women  embar- 
rassed and  the  men  always  suggestive  and  facetious? 
If  only  the  men  could  realize  what  they  admitted  by 
their  tone;  what  attitude  towards  life.   .   .  . 

It  was  a  bitter  east-wind;  the  worst  kind  of  day 
there  was.  All  along  Oxford  Street  were  women  in 
furs,  serene,  with  smooth  warm  faces  untroubled  by 
the  bleak  black  wind,  perhaps  even  enjoying  the  cold. 
Miriam  struggled  along,  towards  the  cruel  east,  shiver- 
ing, her  face  shrivelled  and  frozen  and  burning,  her 
brain  congealed.  If  she  were  free  she  could  at  least 
have  a  cup  of  coffee  and  get  warm  and  go  into  the 
Museum  and  be  warm  all  the  afternoon.  To  meet 
a  stranger  and  have  to  be  active  and  sociable  when 
she  was  at  her  worst.  He  would  be  wrapped  in  the 
advantage  of  a  fur-lined  coat,  or  at  least  astrachan, 
and  be  able  to  think  and  speak.  He  would  wonder 
what  was  the  matter;  even  his  careless  foreign  friend- 
liness would  not  survive  her  frightful  appearance. 
Yet  when    a   clock  told   her  the   appointed  time  was 

-58- 


DEADLOCK 

past,  the  torment  of  the  wind  grew  sharper  in  the 
thought  that  she  might  miss  him.  There  wa^ 
the  Holborn  Library,  as  he  had  described.  There 
was  no  one  there,  the  pavement  was  empty;  he  had 
given  her  up  and  gone ;  had  perhaps  never  come.  She 
was  reheved.  She  had  done  her  best.  Fate  had 
saved  her;  her  afternoon  was  her  own.  But  she  must 
show  herself,  perhaps  he  might  be  sheltering  just 
inside  the  door.  The  doorway  was  empty.  There 
was  a  man  leaning  against  the  lamp-post.  She  scanned 
him  unwillingly,  lest  he  should  turn  into  Mr.  Shatov; 
but  he  produced  only  the  details  of  the  impression  she 
had  taken  before  she  glanced,  a  shabby,  sinister-looking 
Tottenham  Court  Road  foreign  loafer,  in  yellow  boots, 
an  overcoat  of  an  evil  shade  of  brown  and  a  waiter's 
black-banded  grey  felt  hat;  but  she  had  paused  and 
glanced  and  of  course  his  eye  was  immediately  upon 
her  and  his  lounging  figure  upright  as  she  swept  across 
the  pavement  to  gain  the  road  and  flee  the  displeasing 
contact.  He  almost  ran  into  her;  trotting  ....  ah, 
I  am  glad  ....  it  was  Mr.  Shatov.   .   .   . 

Looking  like  that,  she  was  now  to  take  him  in 
amongst  the  British  Museum  officials,  and  the  readers 
she  knew  by  sight  and  who  knew  her;  introduce  him 
to  the  librarian.  She  scanned  him  as  he  eagerly  talked, 
looking  in  vain  for  the  presence  she  had  sat  with  in 
the  drawing-room;  the  eyes  had  come  back;  but  that 
was  all,  and  she  could  not  forget  how  brooding,  almost 
evil,  they  had  looked  just  now.  They  gleamed  again 
with  intelligence;  but  their  brilliant  beauty  shone  from 
a  face  that  looked  almost  dingy,  in  the  hard  light; 
and  yellowish  under  the  frightful  hat  peaked  down, 
cutting  off  his  forehead.     He  was  gloveless  and  in  his 

—59— 


DEADLOCK 

hands,  grimed  with  walking  in  the  winter  streets,  he 
held  a  paper  bag  of  grapes  which  he  ate  as  he  talked, 
expelling  the  skins  and  flinging  them  from  him  as  he 
walked  ...  he  looked  just  simply  disreputable. 
Even  his  voice  had  gone;  raised  against  the  traffic  it 
was  narrow  and  squeaky;  a  disreputable  foreigner, 
plunging  carelessly  along,  piercing  her  ear  with  mean 
broken  English.  She  shouted  vague  repHes  in  French ; 
in  yelled  French  his  voice  was  even  more  squeaky;  but 
the  foreign  tongue  gave  a  refuge  and  a  shape  to  their 
grouping;  she  became  a  sort  of  guide;  anyone  could 
be  that  to  any  sort  of  foreigner. 

In  the  cloak  room  were  the  usual  ladies  comfort- 
ably eating  lunch  from  sandwich  tins  and  talking, 
talking,  talking  to  the  staff,  moving  endlessly  to  and 
fro  amongst  the  cages  of  hanging  garments;  answering 
unconsciously.  The  mysterious  everlasting  work  of 
the  lunching  ladies,  giving  them  the  privilege  of  being 
all  day  at  the  museum,  always  in  the  same  seats,  ac- 
cepted and  approved,  seemed  to  make  no  mark  upon 
them;  they  bore  themselves  just  as  they  would  have 
done  anywhere,  the  same  mysteriously  unfailing  flow  of 
talk,  the  mysterious  basis  of  agreement  with  other  wo- 
men, the  same  enthusiastic  discussions  of  the  weather, 
the  cases  in  the  newspapers,  their  way  of  doing  this  and 
that,  their  opinions  of  places  and  people.  .  .-  .  They 
seemed  to  have  no  sense  of  the  place  they  were  in,  and 
yet  were  so  extraordinarily  at  home  there,  and  most 
wonderful  of  all,  serene,  with  untroubled  eyes  and 
hands  in  the  thin  stuffy  heat  of  the  cloakroom. 

These  thoughts  came  every  time;  the  sense  of  Mr. 
Shatov,  busy,  she  hoped,  washing  his  face  and  hands 
down    beyond    the    stairs    leading    to    the    unknown 


DEADLOCK 

privacies  at  the  other  end  of  the  corridor,  could  not 
banish  them;  the  bearing  of  these  ladies  was  the  most 
mysterious  thing  in  the  museum.  In  this  room  she 
was  always  on  her  guard.  It  was  jolly  after  roaming 
slowly  across  the  courtyard  towards  the  unfailing 
unchanging  beauty  of  the  great  grey  pillars,  pigeon- 
garlanded,  to  wander  through  the  out-branching  hall 
to  where  the  lame  commissionaire  held  open  the  magic 
door,  and  fly  along  the  passage  and  break  in  here, 
permitted,  cold  and  grimy  and  ruffled  from  the  street, 
and  emerge  washed  and  hatless  and  rested,  to  saunter 
down  the  corridor  and  see  ahead,  before  becoming 
one  of  them,  the  dim  various  forms  sitting  in  little 
circles  of  soft  yellow  light  under  the  high  mysterious 
dome.  But  in  one  unguarded  moment  in  this  room 
all  these  women  would  turn  into  acquaintances,  and 
the  spell  of  the  Museum,  springing  forth  perhaps  for 
a  while,  intensified,  would  disappear  for  ever.  They 
would  turn  it  into  themselves,  varying  and  always  in 
the  end,  in  silence,  the  same.  In  solitude  it  remained 
unvarying  yet  never  twice  alike,  casting  its  large 
increasing  charm  upon  them  as  they  moved  distant 
and  unknown. 

In  the  lower  cloak-room  there  was  always  escape; 
no  sofas,  no  grouped  forms.  Today  it  stood  bare, 
its  long  row  of  basins  unoccupied.  She  turned  taps 
joyously;  icy  cold  and  steaming  hot  water  rushing 
to  cleanse  her  basin  from  Its  revealing  relics.  They 
were  all  the  same,  and  all  the  soaps,  save  one  she 
secured  from  a  distant  corner,  sloppy.  Surveying, 
she  felt  with  Irritated  repugnance,  the  quality,  slap- 
dash and  unaware,  of  the  Interchange  accompanying 
and  matching  the  ablutions.     A  woman  came  out  of 

—61— 


DEADLOCK 

a  lavatory  and  stood  at  her  side,  also'  swiftly  restoring 
a  basin.  It  was  she.  .  .  .  Miriam  envied  the  basin. 
....  Freely  watching  the  peaceful  face  in  the  mirror, 
she  washed  with  an  intense  sense  of  sheltering  compan- 
ionship. Far  in  behind  the  peaceful  face  serene 
thoughts  moved,  not  to  and  fro,  but  outward  and 
forward  from  some  sure  centre.  Perfectly  screened, 
unknowing  and  unknown,  she  went  about  within  the 
charmed  world  of  her  inheritance.  It  was  difficult  to 
imagine  what  work  she  might  be  doing,  always  here, 
and  always  moving  about  as  if  unseeing  and  unseen. 
Round  about  her  serenity  any  kind  of  life  could  group, 
leaving  it,  as  the  foggy  grime  and  the  dusty  swelter 
of  London  left  her,  unsullied  and  untouched.  But 
for  the  present  she  was  here,  as  if  she  moved, 
emerging  from  a  spacious  many-windowed  sunlight 
flooded  house  whose  happy  days  were  in  her  quiet 
hands,  in  clear  light  about  the  spaces  of  a  wide  garden. 
Yet  she  was  aware  of  the  world  about  her.  It  was 
not  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  her  that  she  should 
be  free  to  wander  here  in  solitude.  For  those  women 
she  would  have  a  quiet  unarmed  confronting  manner, 
at  their  service,  but  holding  them  off  without  dis- 
courtesy, passing  on  with  cup  unspilled.  Nothing  but 
music  reached  her  ears,  everything  she  saw  melted  into 
a  background  of  garden  sunlight. 

She  was  out  of  sight,  drying  her  hands,  lighting 
up  the  corner  of  the  room  where  the  towels  hung. 
...  If  Mr.  Shatov  were  on  her  hands,  she  would 
not  be  regretting  that  the  afternoon  could  hold  no 
solitary  wanderings.  She  made  no  calculations;  for 
she  could  not  be  robbed.  That  was  strength.  She 
was  gone.     Miriam  finished  her  operations  as  though 

—62— 


DEADLOCK 

she  remained,  drying  her  hands  unhurriedly,  standing 
where  she  had  stood,  trying  to  survey  the  unf  oretellaWe 
afternoon  with  something  of  her  sustained  tranquillity. 

He  would  probably  be  plunging  up  and  down  the 
corridor  with  a  growing  impatience.  .  .  .  There 
he  was,  unconcernedly  waiting;  his  singing  deter- 
mined child's  head  reared  hatless  above  the  dreadful 
overcoat,  the  clear  light  of  the  corridor  upon  its  modest 
thought-moulded  dignity  .  .  .  distinguished  .  .  .  that 
was  what  he  was.  She  felt  unworthy,  helplessly 
inadequate,  coming  up  the  corridor  to  claim  him.  She 
was  amongst  the  people  passing  about  him  before  he 
saw  her;  and  she  caught  again  the  look  of  profound  re- 
proachful brooding  melancholy  seated  in  his  eyes,  so 
strangely  contradicting  his  whole  happy  look  of  a 
child  standing  at  a  party,  gazing,  everything  pouring 
into  its  wide  eyes;  dancing  and  singing  within  itself, 
unconscious  of  its  motionless  body. 

"Here  we  are,"  she  said  avertedly  as  he  came 
eagerly  forward. 

"Let  us  quickly  to  this  official,"  he  urged  in  his 
indoor  voice. 

"All  right;  this  way."  He  hurried  along  at  her 
side,  beard  forward,  his  yellow  boots  plunging  in 
long  rapid  strides  beneath  his  voluminously  floating 
overcoat. 

She  resented  the  librarian's  official  manner;  the 
appearance  of  the  visitor,  the  little  card  he  promptly 
produced,  should  have  been  enough.  Stud.  Schtudent, 
how  much  more  expressive  than  stewdent  ...  to  be 
able  to  go  about  the  world  for  years,  so-and-so, 
stud.  ...  all  doors  open  and  committed  to  nothing. 
She  asserted  herself  by  making  suggestions  in  French. 

-63- 


DEADLOCK 

Mr.  Shatov  responded  politely,  also  in  French,  and  she 
felt  the  absurdity  of  her  eager  interference,  holding 
him  a  prisoner,  hiding  his  studious  command  of 
English,  in  order  to  flourish  forth  her  knowledge. 
"We  are  not  afraid  even  of  Russian,  if  Mr.  Shatov 
prefers  to  use  his  own  tongue,"  said  the  librarian. 
Miriam  flashed  a  suspicious  glance.  He  was  smiling 
a  self-conscious  superior  English  smile.  It  soured 
into  embarrassment  under  her  eye. 

"It  is  no  matter,"  said  Mr.  Shatov  gently,  "you 
shall  immediately  say  me  the  requisite  formules  which 
I  shall  at  once  write."  He  stood  beautiful,  the  gentle 
unconsciously  reproachful  prey  of  English  people 
unable  to  resist  their  desire  to  be  effective.  They 
stood  conquered,  competing  in  silent  appreciation,  as 
he  bent  writing  his  way  into  their  forgotten  library. 

"Now  I  am  pairfectly  happy,"  he  said  as  he  passed! 
through  the  swing  doors  of  the  reading-room.  His 
head  was  up  radiantly  singing,  he  was  rushing  trust- 
fully forward,  looking  at  nothing,  carrying  her  on,  close 
at  his  side,  till  they  reached  the  barrier  of  the  outmost 
catalogue  desk.  He  pulled  up  facing  her,  with  wide 
wild  eyes  looking  at  nothing.  "We  shall  at  once  take 
Anakar«}'ninna  in  English,"  he  shouted  in  an  enthu- 
siastic whisper. 

"We  must  choose  seats  before  we  get  books," 
murmured  Miriam.  There  was  plenty  to  do  and  ex- 
plain; the  revelation  of  her  meagre  attack  on  the  riches 
of  the  library  need  not  yet  come.  Were  they  to  read 
together?  Had  he  reached  his  goal  "midst  all  those 
literatures"  to  spend  his  time  in  showing  her  Tolstoy? 
He  followed  her  absently  about  as  she  filled  in  the 
time  while  they  waited  for  their  book,  by  showing  all 

-64- 


DEADLOCK 

she  knew  of  the  routine  of  the  library.  "There  shall 
of  course,"  he  said  in  a  gruff  explanatory  tone,  arresting 
her  near  the  entrance  to  the  central  enclosure,  "be 
a  quite  exhaustive  system  of  catalogue,  but  I  find  there 
is  too  much  formalities;  with  all  these  little  baskets." 
"Ssh,"  begged  Miriam  leading  him  away.  She  drifted 
to  the  bookshelves,  showing  him  the  one  shelf  she 
knew  on  the  south  side ;  there  was  a  reader  on  a  ladder 
at  the  very  shelf.  "Carlyle's  French  Revolution  is 
up  there,"  she  said  confidently.  "Na,  na,"  he 
growled  reproachfully,  "this  is  a  most  purely  unreliable 
fictional  history,  a  tour  de  force  from  special  individ- 
ual prejudices.  You  should  take  rather  Thiers." 
She  piloted  him  across  to  her  shelf  on  the  north  side 
to  point  out  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes  and  the 
North  American  Review.  He  paused,  searching  along 
the  shelves.  ^'Jh.  Here  is  books."  He  drew  out 
and  flung  open  a  heavy  beautifully  printed  volume 
with  wide  margins  on  the  pages;  she  would  show  him 
the  clever  little  folding  arrangements  to  hold  heavy 
volumes;  "You  do  not  know  these?"  he  demanded  of 
her  silence;  "ah  that  is  a  great  pity;  it  is  the  complete 
discours  de  I'Academie  francaise;  you  shall  immediately 
read  them;  ah,  they  are  the  most  perfect  modeles." 
She  glanced  at  the  open  page  beginning  "Messieurs! 
Le  sentiment  de  fierte  avec  laquelle  je  vous" ;  it  was 
a  voice;  exactly  like  the  voice  of  Mr.  Shatov.  He 
stood  with  the  heavy  open  volume,  insisting  in  his 
dreadfully  audible  whisper  on  wonderful  French  names 
prefixed  to  the  titles  of  addresses,  fascinating  subjects, 
one  of  them  Mr.  Gladstone!  He  looked  French  as 
he  spoke;  a  brilliantly  polished  Frenchman.  Why 
had  he  not  gone   to  France?     He  was  German  too, 

-65- 


DEADLOCK 

with  a  Germain  education  and  yet  with  some  impatiently 
unexplained  understanding  and  contempt — for  Ger- 
many. Why  was  he  drawn  towards  England?  That 
was  the  mysterious  thing.  What  was  the  secret  of 
the  reverence  in  this  man  towards  England  and  the 
English?  He  was  not  an  anarchist.  There  he  stood, 
Russian,  come  from  all  that  far-away  beauty,  with 
German  and  French  culture  in  his  mind,  longingly  to 
England,  coming  to  Tansley  Street;  unconsciously 
bringing  her  her  share  in  his  longed-for  arrival  and 
its  fulfilments.  She  watched  as  he  talked,  marvelling 
at  the  undeserved  wealth  offered  to  her  in  the  httle 
figure  discoursing  so  eagerly  over  the  cumbrous 
volume,  and  at  this  moment  the  strange  Russian  book 
was  probably  waiting  for  them. 

It  was  a  big  thick  book.  Miriam  sat  down  before 
it.  The  lights  had  come  on.  The  book  lay  in  a 
pool  of  sharp  yellow  light;  Tolstoy,  surrounded  by 
a  waiting  gloom;  the  secret  of  Tolstoy  standing  at 
her  side,  rapidly  taking  off  his  overcoat.  He  drew 
up  the  chair  from  the  next  place  and  sat  close,  flatten- 
ing out  the  book  at  the  first  chapter  and  beginning 
to  read  at  once,  bent  low  over  the  book.  She  bent 
too,  stretching  her  hands  out  beyond  her  knees  to  make 
herself  narrow,  and  fastening  on  the  title.  Her 
anticipations  fell  dead.  It  was  the  name  of  a  woman. 
.  .  .  Anna;  of  all  names.  Karenine.  The  story 
of  a  woman  told  by  a  man  with  a  man's  ideas  about 
people.  But  Anna  Karenine  was  not  what  Tolstoy 
had  written.  Behind  the  ugly  feebleness  of  the  sub- 
stituted word  was  something  quite  different,  strong  and 
beautiful;  a  whole  legend  in  itself.  Why  had  the 
translator    altered    the    surname?     Anna    Kard!};ninna 

—66— 


DEADLOCK 

was  a  line  of  Russian  poetry.  His  word  was  nothing, 
neither  EngHsh  nor  French,  and  sounded  like  a  face- 
cream.  She  scanned  sceptically  up  and  down  the  pages 
of  English  words,  chilled  by  the  fear  of  detecting  the 
trail  of  the  translator. 

Mr.  Shatov  read  steadily,  breathing  his  enthusiasm 
in  gusts,  pausing  as  each  fresh  name  appeared,  to 
pronounce  it  in  Russian  and  to  explain  the  three  names 
belonging  to  each  character.  They  were  all  ex- 
pressive; easy  to  remember  because  of  their  expressive- 
ness. The  three-fold  name,  giving  each  character 
three  faces,  each  turned  towards  a  different  part  of 

his  world,  was  fascinating Conversation  began 

almost  at  once  and  kept  breaking  out;  strange  abrupt 
conversation  different  to  any  she  had  read  elsewhere. 
.  .  .  What  was  it?  She  wanted  to  hold  the  pages  and 
find  out;  but  Mr.  Shatov  read  on  and  on,  steadily 
turning  the  leaves.  She  skipped,  fastening  upon  the 
patches  of  dialogue  on  her  side  of  the  open  page, 
reading  them  backwards  and  forwards,  glancing  at  the 
solid  intervening  portions  to  snatch  an  idea  of  the 
background.  What  was  the  mysterious  difference? 
Why  did  she  feel  she  could  hear  the  tone  of  the 
voices  and  the  pauses  between  the  talk;  the  curious 
feeling  of  things  moving  and  changing  in  the  air  that 
is  always  there  in  all  conversations?  Her  excitement 
grew,  drawing  her  upright  to  stare  her  question  into 
the  gloom  beyond  the  lamp. 

"Well?"  demanded  Mr.  Shatov. 

"It's  fascinating." 

"What  have  I  told  you?  That  Is  Tohtoy/'  he  said 
proudly;  "but  this  is  a  most  vile  translation.  All 
these  nu  and  da.     Why  not  simply  zcell  and  yes;  and 

-67- 


DEADLOCK 

boszhe  moi  is  quite  simply,  my  God.  But  this  pre- 
liminary part  is  not  so  interesting  as  later.  There  is 
in  this  book  the  self-history  of  Tolstoy.  He  is  Layvin, 
and  Kitty  is  the  Countess  Tolstoy.  That  is  all  most 
wonderful.  When  we  see  her  in  the  early  morning; 
and  the  picture  of  this  wedding.  There  is  only 
Tolstoy  for  those  marvellous  touches.  I  shall  show 
you." 

"Why  does  he  call  it  Anna  Karayninna?"  asked 
Miriam  anxiously. 

"Certainly.  It  is  a  most  masterly  study  of  a  certain 
type  of  woman." 

The  fascination  of  the  book  still  flickered  brightly; 
but  far  away,  retreated  into  the  lonely  incommunicable 
distance  of  her  mind.  It  seemed  always  to  be  useless 
and  dangerous  to  talk  about  books.     They  were  always 

about   something   else If  she   had  not   asked 

she  would  have  read  the  book  without  finding  out  it 
was  a  masterly  study  of  Anna.  Why  must  a  book  be 
a  masterly  study  of  some  single  thing?  Everybody 
wisely  raving  about  it.  .  .  .  But  if  one  never  found 
out  what  a  book  was  a  masterly  study  of,  it  meant 
being  ignorant  of  things  every  one  knew  and  agreed 
about;  a  kind  of  hopeless  personal  ignorance  and 
unintelligence;  reading  whole  books  through  and 
through,  and  only  finding  out  what  they  were  about 
by  accident,  when  people  happened  to  talk  about 
them,  and  even  then,  reading  them  again,  and  finding 
principally  quite  other  things,  which  stayed,  after  one 
had  forgotten  what  people  had  explained. 

"I  see,"  she  said  intelligently.  The  readers  on 
either  side  were  glancing  angrily.  Miriam  guiltily 
recalled  her  own  anger  with  people  who  sat  together 

—68— 


DEADLOCK 

murmuring  and  hissing.  But  it  felt  so  different  when 
you  were  one  of  the  people.  The  next  time  she  felt 
angry  in  this  way  she  would  realize  how  interested 
the  talkers  were,  and  try  to  forget  them.  Still  it 
was  wrong.  "We  must  not  talk,"  she  breathed.  He 
glanced  about  and  returned  to  his  shuffling  of  pages. 

"Heere  it  is,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  gutteral  whisper 
far  more  distinct  than  his  mutterings;  "I  shall  show 
you  this  wonderful  passage." 

"Ssh,  yes,"  murmured  Miriam  firmly,  peering  at 
the  indicated  phrase.  The  large  warm  gloom  of  the 
library,  with  its  green-capped  pools  of  happy  light, 
was  stricken  into  desolation  as  she  read.  She  swung 
back  to  her  world  of  English  books  and  glanced  for 
comfort  at  the  forms  of  Englishmen  seated  in  various 
attitudes  of  reading  about  the  far  edges  of  her  circle 
of  vision.  But  the  passage  was  inexorably  there; 
poison  dropping  from  the  book  into  the  world;  foreign 
poison,  but  translated  and  therefore  read  by  at  least 
some  Englishmen.  The  sense  of  being  in  arms  against 
an  onslaught  already  achieved,  filled  her  with  despair. 
The  enemy  was  far  away,  inaccessibly  gone  forward 
spreading  more  poison.  She  turned  furiously  on 
Mr.  Shatov.  She  could  not  disprove  the  lie;  but  at 
least  he  should  not  sit  there  near  her,  holding  it 
unconcerned. 

"I  can't  see  anything  wonderful.  It  isn't  true," 
she  said. 

"Ah,  that  is  very  English,"  beamed  Mr.  Shatov. 

"It  is.  Any  English  person  would  know  that  it 
is  not  true." 

Mr.  Shatov  gurgled  his  laughter.  "Ah,  that  is 
very  naive." 

-69- 


DEADLOCK 

"It  may  be.     That  doesn't  make  any  difference." 

"It  makes  the  difference  that  you  are  inex- 
perienced," he  growled  gently.  That  was  true.  She 
had  no  experience.  She  only  knew  it  was  not  true. 
Perhaps  it  was  true.  Then  life  grew  bleak  again.  .  .  . 
It  was  not  true.  But  it  was  true  for  men.  Skimmed 
off  the  surface,  which  was  all  they  could  see,  and  set 
up  neatly  in  forcible  quotable  words.  The  rest  could 
not  be  shown  in  these  clever,  neat  phrases. 

"But  I  find  the  air  here  is  most  evil.  Let  us  rather 
go  have  tea." 

Astonishment  melted  into  her  pride  in  leading  him 
down  through  the  great  hall  and  along  the  beloved 
corridor  of  her  solitary  pacings,  out  into  the  gigantic 
granite  smile  of  the  Egyptian  gallery,  to  the  always 
sudden  door  of  the  refreshment  room. 

"If  I  got  locked  into  the  Museum  at  night  I  should 
stay  in  this  gallery,"  she  said  unable  to  bear  compan- 
ionship in  her  sanctuary  without  extorting  some 
recognition  of  its  never-failing  quality. 

"It  is  certainly  impressive,  in  a  crude  way," 
admitted  Mr.  Shatov. 

"They  are  so  absolutely  peaceful,"  said  Miriam 
struggling  on  behalf  of  her  friends  with  her  fury  at 
this  extraordinary  judgment.  It  had  not  before  oc- 
curred to  her  that  they  were  peaceful  and  that  was 
not  enough.  She  gazed  down  the  vista  to  discover 
the  nature  of  the  spell  they  cast.  "You  can  see  them 
in  clear  light  in  the  desert,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  mo- 
ment. The  charm  grew  as  she  spoke.  She  looked 
forward  to  being  alone  with  them  again  in  the  light 
of  this  discovery.  The  chill  of  Mr.  Shatov's  in- 
different  response   to   her   explanation   was  buried   in 

—70— 


DEADLOCK 

her  private  acknowledgment  that  it  was  he  who  had 
forced  her  to  discover  something  of  the  reason  of  her 
enchantment.  He  forced  her  to  think.  She  reflected 
that  soHtude  was  too  easy.  It  was  necessary  for 
certainties.  Nothing  could  be  known  except  in 
solitude.  But  the  struggle  to  communicate  certainties 
gave  them  new  life;  even  if  the  explanation  were 
only  a  small  piece  of  the  truth.  .  .  .  "Excuse  me 
I  leave  you  a  moment,"  he  said,  turning  off  through 
the  maze  of  little  figures  near  the  door.  The  extra- 
ordinary new  thing  was  that  she  could  think,  un- 
troubled, in  his  company.  She  gratefully  blessed  his 
disappearing  form. 

"I'm  going  to  have  toast  and  jam,"  she  announced 
expansively  when  the  waitress  appeared. 

"Bring  me  just  a  large  pot  of  tea  and  some  kind 
of  sweetmeat,"  said  Mr.  Shatov  reproachfully. 

"Pastries,"  murmured  Miriam. 

"What  is  pastries,'*  he  asked  mournfully. 

"Patisseries,"  beamed  Miriam. 

"Ah  no,"  he  explained  patiently,  "it  is  not  that 
at  all;  I  will  have  simply  some  small  things  in  sugar." 

"No  pastries;  cake,"  said  the  waitress,  watching 
herself  in  the  mirror. 

"Ach  bring  me  just  tea,"  bellowed  Mr.  Shatov. 

Several  people  looked  round,  but  he  did  not 
appear  to  notice  them  and  sat  hunched,  his  overcoat 
coming  up  behind  beyond  his  collar,  his  arms  thrust 
out  over  the  table,  ending  in  grubby  clasped  hands. 
In  a  moment  he  was  talking.  Miriam  sat  taking  in 
the  change  in  the  feeling  of  the  familiar  place  under 
the  influence  of  his  unconcerned  presence.  There 
were  the  usual  strangers  strayed  in  from  the  galleries, 

—71— 


DEADLOCK 

little  parties,  sitting  exposed  at  the  central  tables 
near  the  door;  not  quite  at  home,  their  eyes  still 
filled  with  the  puzzled  preoccupation  with  which  they 
had  wandered  and  gazed,  the  relief  of  their  customary 
conversation  held  back  until  they  should  have  paid, 
out  of  their  weary  bewilderment,  some  tribute  of 
suitable  comment;  looking  about  the  room,  watching 
in  separate  uneasiness  for  material  to  carry  them 
past  the  insoluble  problem.  They  were  unchanged. 
But  the  readers  stood  out  anew;  the  world  they  had 
made  for  her  was  broken  up.  Those  who  came  in 
twos  and  sat  at  the  more  sequestered  tables,  maddening 
her  with  endless  conversations  at  cross  purposes 
from  unconsidered  assumptions,  were  defeated.  Their 
voices  were  covered  by  Mr.  Shatov's  fluent  monologue, 
and  though  her  own  voice,  sounding  startlingly  in  the 
room,  seemed  at  once  only  an  exclamatory  unpractised 
reproduction  of  these  accustomed  voices,  changing 
already  their  aspect  and  making  her  judgment  of  them 
rock  insecurely  in  her  mind,  it  was  threaded  into  his 
unconcerned  reality  and  would  presently  be  real. 

But  the  solitary  readers,  sitting  in  corners  over 
books,  or  perched,  thoughtfully  munching  and  sipping, 
with  their  backs  to  the  room,  on  the  high  stools  at 
the  refreshment  counter,  and  presently  getting  down 
to  escape  untouched  and  free,  through  the  swing  door, 
their  unlifted  eyes  recovering  already,  through  its 
long  glass  panels,  the  living  dream  of  the  hugely  mov- 
ing galleries,  reproached  her  for  her  lost  state. 

Mr.  Shatov's  dreaming  face  woke  to  prevent  her 
adding  milk  to  his  tea,  and  settled  again,  dwelling 
with  his  far-off  theme.  She  began  listening  In  detail 
to  screen  her  base   interest  In  her  extravagant  fare. 

—72— 


DEADLOCK 

"It  is  a  remarkable  fact,"  he  was  saying  and  she 
looked  up,  astonished  at  the  sudden  indistinctness  of 
his  voice.  His  eyes  met  hers  severely,  above  the  rim 
of  his  cup,  "but  of  almost  universal  application,"  he 
proceeded  thickly,  and  paused  to  produce  between  his 
lips  a  saturated  lump  of  sugar.  She  stared,  horrified. 
Very  gravely,  unattained  by  her  disgust,  he  drew  in 
his  tea  in  neat  noiseless  sips  till  the  sugar  disappeared 
....  when  he  deftly  extracted  another  lump  from 
the  basin  and  went  on  with  his  story. 

The  series  of  lumps,  passing  one  by  one  without 
accident  through  their  shocking  task,  softened  in 
some  remarkable  way  the  history  of  Tourgainyeff 
and  Madame  Viardot.  The  protest  that  struggled 
in  her  to  rise  and  express  itself  was  held  in  check  by 
his  peculiar  serenity.  The  frequent  filling  of  his 
cup  and  the  selection  of  his  long  series  of  lumps 
brought  no  break  in  his  concentration.  .  .  .  Above 
the  propped  elbows  and  the  cup  held  always  at  the 
level  of  his  lips,  his  talking  face  was  turned  to  hers. 
Expressions  moved  untroubled  through  his  eyes. 

When  they  left  the  tea-room  he  plunged  rapidly 
along  as  if'  unaware  of  his  surroundings.  The 
whole  Museum  was  there,  unexplored,  and  this 
was  his  first  visit.  He  assented  indifferently  to  her 
suggestion  that  they  should  just  look  at  the  Elgin 
Marbles,  and  stood  unmoved  before  the  groups, 
presently  saying  with  some  impatience  that  here, 
too,  the  air  was  oppressive  and  he  would  like  to  go 
into  the  freshness. 

Out  in  the  street  he  walked  quickly  along  brumming 
to  himself.  She  felt  they  had  been  long  acquainted; 
the    afternoon    had    abolished    embarrassments,    but 

—73— 


DEADLOCK 

he  was  a  stranger.  She  had  nothing  to  say  to  him; 
perhaps  there  would  be  no  more  communications. 
She  looked  forward  with  uneasiness  to  the  evening's 
lesson.  They  were  both  tired;  it  would  be  an 
irretrievable  failure  to  try  to  extend  their  afternoon's 
achievement;  and  she  would  have  to  pass  the  inter- 
vening time  alone  with  her  growing  incapability, 
while  he  recovered  his  tone  at  the  dinner-table. 
The  thought  of  him  there,  socially  alive  while  she 
froze  in  her  room,  was  intolerable.  She  too  would 
go  in  to  dinner  .  .  .  their  present  association  was 
too  painful  to  part  upon.  She  bent  their  steps 
cheerfully  in  the  direction  of  home.  "Excuse  me," 
he  said  suddenly,  "I  will  take  here  fruits,"  and  he 
disappeared  into  a  g;reengrocer's  shop  emerging 
presently  munching  from  an  open  bag  of  grapes.   .   .   . 

Supposing  books  had  no  names.  .  .  .  Villette  had 
meant  nothing  for  years;  a  magic  name  until  some- 
body said  it  was  Brussels  .  .  .  she  was  impressed 
by  St.  Paul's  dome  in  the  morning  because  it 
was  St.  Paul's.  That  spoilt  the  part  about  the 
journey;  waking  you  up  with  a  start  like  the  end 
of  a  dream.  St.  Paul's  sticking  out  through  the 
text;  some  one  suddenly  introduced  to  you  at  a 
gathering,  standing  in  front  of  you,  blocking  out  the 
general  sense  of  things;  until  you  began  to  dance, 
when  it  came  back  until  you  stopped,  when  the  person 
became  a  person  again,  with  a  name,  and  special 
things  had  to  be  said.  St.  Paul's  could  not  be  got 
into  the  general  sense  of  the  journey;  it  was  a  quo- 
tation from  another  world;  a  smaller  world  than 
Lucy  Snowe  and  her  journey. 

—74— 


DEADLOCK 

Yet  it  would  be  wonderful  to  wake  up  at  a  little 
inn  in  the  city  and  suddenly  see  St.  Paul's  for  the 
first  time.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  those  journey 
moments  of  suddenly  seeing  something  celebrated, 
and  missing  the  impression  through  fear  of  not  being 
impressed  enough;  and  trying  to  impress  your  im- 
pression by  telling  of  the  thing  by  name  .  .  .  every- 
body had  that  difficulty.  The  vague  shimmer  of 
gas-lit  people  around  the  table  all  felt  things  without 
being  able  to  express  them  .  .  .  she  glowed  towards 
the  assembled  group;  towards  every  one  in  the  world. 
For  a  moment  she  looked  about  in  detail,  wanting 
to  communicate  her  thought  and  share  a  moment  of 
general  agreement.  Everybody  was  talking,  looking 
spruce  and  neat  and  finished,  in  the  transforming 
gaslight.  Each  one  something  that  would  never 
be  expressed,  all  thinking  they  were  expressing  things 
and  not  knowing  the  lonely  look  visible  behind  the 
eyes  they  turned  upon  the  world,  of  their  actual 
selves  as  they  were  when  they  were  alone.  But  they 
were  all  saying  things  they  wanted  to  say  .  .  .  they 
did  express  themselves,  in  relation  to  each  other;  they 
grew  in  knowledge  of  each  other,  in  approval  or 
disapproval,  tested  each  other  and  knew,  behind  their 
strange  immovable  positive  conversations  about  things 
that  were  all  matters  of  opinion  perpetually  shifting, 
in  a  marvellous  way  each  others'  characters.  They 
also  knew  after  the  first  pleasant  moment  of  meeting 
eyes  and  sounding  voices  when  one  tried  to  talk 
in  their  way,  that  one  was  playing  them  false.  The 
glow  could  live  for  awhile  when  one  had  not  met  them 
for  some  time;  but  before  the  end  of  the  meeting 
one   was   again    condemned,   living   in   heavy   silence, 

—75— 


DEADLOCK 

whilst  one's  mind  whirled  with  the  sense  of  their  clear 
visions  and  the  tantalizing  inclination  to  take,  for  life, 
the  mould  of  one  or  other  point  of  view. 

How  obliviously  they  all  talked  on.  She  thanked 
them.  With  their  talk  flowing  across  the  table, 
giving  the  central  golden  glow  of  light  a  feeling  of 
permanence,  her  failures  in  life,  strident  about  the 
room,  were  visible  and  audible  only  to  herself.  If 
she  could  remain  silent,  they  would  die  down, 
and  the  stream  of  her  unworthy  life  would  merge, 
before  he  appeared,  into  a  semblance  of  oneness 
with  these  other  lives.  .  .  .  She  caught  the  dark  Rus- 
sian eyes  of  Mr.  Rodkin  sitting  opposite.  He  smiled 
through  his  glasses  his  dry,  sweet,  large-eyed 
smile,  his  head  turned  listening  to  his  neighbour. 
She  beamed  her  response,  relieved,  as  if  they  had  had 
a  long  satisfactory  conversation.  He  would  have 
understood  ...  in  spite  of  his  commercial  city- 
life.  He  accepted  everybody.  He  was  the  central 
kindliness  of  the  room.  No  wonder  Mrs.  Bailey  was 
so  fond  of  him  and  leant  upon  his  presence,  in  spite 
of  his  yawning  hatred  of  Sundays.  He  was  illu- 
minated; she  had  his  secret  at  last  given  her  by  Mr. 
Shatov.  Russian  kindliness,  .  .  .  Russians  under- 
stand silence  and  are  not  afraid  of  it?  Kindly  silence 
comes  out  of  their  speech,  and  lies  behind  it,  leaving 
things  the  same  whatever  has  been  said?  This  would 
be  truer  of  him  than  of  Mr.  Shatov  .  .  .  moy  word. 
Shatov  at  the  station  with  his  father.  You  never 
saw  such  a  thing.  Talking  to  the  old  boy  as  if  he 
was  a  porter;  snapping  his  head  off  whenever  he 
spoke.  .  .  .  She  pulled  up  sharply.  If  she  thought  of 
him,  the  fact  that  she  was  only  passing  the  time  would 

-76- 


DEADLOCK 

become  visible  .  .  .  what  was  that  just  now,  opening; 
about  silence? 

There  is  no  need  to  go  out  into  the  world.  Every- 
thing is  there  without  anything;  the  world  is  added. 
And  always  whatever  happens  there  is  everything  to 
return  to.  The  pattern  round  her  plate  was  life, 
alive,  everything  .  .  .  what  was  that  idea  I  used  to 
have?  Enough  for  one  person  in  the  world  would 
be  enough  for  everybody  .  .  .  how  did  it  go?  It  was 
so  clear,  while  the  voice  corneted  out  spoiling  the 
sunshine,  .  .  .  "oh  yes  we  were  'ver'^  jolly;  very 
jolly  party,  talking  all  the  time.  Miss  Hood's  song 
sounding  out  at  intervals.  Halcyon  weather."  .  .  . 
"Do  you  ever  feel  how  much  there  is  everywhere?" 
"Nachah's  abundance?"  "No.  I  don't  mean  that. 
I  mean  that  nearly  everything  is  wasted.  Not  things, 
like  soap;  but  the  meanings  of  things.  If  there  is 
enough  for  one  person  there  is  enough  for  everybody." 
"You  mean  that  one  happy  man  makes  the  whole 
universe  glad?"  "He  does.  But  I  don't  mean  that. 
I  mean — everything  is  wasted  all  the  time,  while 
people  are  looking  about  and  arranging  for  more 
things."  "You  would  like  to  simplify  life?  You 
feel  that  man  needs  but  httle  here  below?"  "He 
doesn't  need  anything.  People  go  on  from  everything 
as  if  it  were  nothing  and  never  seem  to  know  there 
Is  anything."  "But  isn't  it  just  the  stimulus  of  his 
needs  that  keeps  him  going?"  "Why  need  he  keep 
going?  That  is  just  my  point."  "Je  ne  vols  pas  la 
necessite,  you  would  say  with  Voltaire?"  "The 
necessity  of  living?  Then  why  didn't  he  hang 
himself."     "I    suppose    because    he    taught    In    song 

—77— 


DEADLOCK 

what  he  learned  in  sorrow."  .  .  .  How  many  people 
knew  that  Maeterlinck  had  explained  in  words  what 
life  was  like  inside?  Seek  ye  first  the  Kingdom  .  .  . 
the  test  is  if  people  want  you  at  their  death-beds. 
None  of  these  people  would  want  me  at  their  death- 
beds. Yet  they  all  ask  deliberate  questions,  shattering 
the  universe.  Maeterlinck  would  call  them  innocent 
questions  about  the  weather  and  the  crops,  behind 
which  they  gently  greet  each  other.  .  .  .  Women 
always  know  their  questions  are  insincere,  a  treachery 
towards  their  silent  knowledge.   .   .   . 

He  must  read  the  chapter  on  silence  and  then  the 
piece  about  the  old  man  by  his  lamp.  That  would 
make  everything  clear  .  .  .  where  was  he  all  this 
time?  Dinner  was  nearly  over.  Perhaps  he  was 
going  out.  She  contemplated  her  blank  evening. 
His  voice  sounded  in  the  hall.  How  inconvenient 
for  people  with  very  long  eyelashes  to  have  to  wear 
glasses  she  thought,  engrossing  herself  in  a  sudden 
vision  of  her  neighbour's  profile.  He  was  coming 
through  the  hall  from  seeing  somebody  out  of  the 
front  door.  If  she  could  be  talking  to  some  one 
she  would  feel  less  huge.  She  tried  to  catch  Mr. 
Rodkin's  eye  to  ask  him  if  he  had  read  Tolstoy. 
Mr.  Shatov  had  come  in,  bowing  his  deep-voiced 
greeting,  and  begun  talking  to  Mr.  Rodkin  before  he 
was  in  his  chair,  as  if  they  were  in  the  middle  of  a 
conversation.  Mr.  Rodkin  answered  at  once  without 
looking  at  him,  and  they  went  on  in  abrupt  sentences 
one  against  the  other,  the  sentences  growing  longer 
as  they  talked. 

Sissie  did  not  hear  the  remark  about  the  weather 
because  she  too  was  attending  to  the  rapid  Russian 
sentences.      She    was    engrossed    in    them,    her    pale 

-78- 


DEADLOCK 

blue  eyes  speculative  and  serene.  Miriam  watched 
in  swift  glances.  The  brilliant  colour  that  Mr. 
Shatov  had  seemed  to  distribute  when  he  sat  down, 
had  shrunk  to  himself.  He  sat  there  warm  and 
rich,  with  easy  movements  and  easily  moving  thoughts, 
his  mind  far  away,  his  features  animated  under  his 
raised  carelessly  singing  eye-brows,  hy  his  Irascible 
comments  on  Mr.  Rodkin's  rapped-out  statements. 
The  room  grew  cold,  every  object  stiff  with  lifeless 
memory,  as  they  sat  talking  Mr.  Rodkin's  business. 
Every  one  sitting  round  the  table  was  clean-cut,  eaten 
into  by  the  raw  edge  of  the  winter  night,  gathered 
for  a  moment  in  the  passing  gas-lit  warmth,  to 
separate  presently  and  face  an  everlasting  renewed 
nothingness.  .  .  .  The  charm  of  the  Russian  words, 
the  fascination  of  grasping  the  gist  of  the  theme 
broke  In  vain  against  the  prevailing  chill.  If  the 
two  should  turn  away  from  each  other  and  bend  their 
glowing  faces,  their  strangely  secure  foreign  independ- 
ence towards  the  general  bleakness,  its  dreadful 
qualities  would  swell  to  a  more  active  torment, 
all  meanings  lost  in  empty  voices  uttering  words  that 
no  one  would  watch  or  explain.  There  was  a  lull. 
Their  conversation  was  changing.  Mr.  Shatov  had 
sat  back  in  his  chair  with  a  Russian  word  that  hung 
in  the  air  and  spread  music.  His  brows  had  come 
down  and  he  was  glancing  thou^tfully  about  the 
table.  She  met  Mr.  Rodkin's  eyes  and  smiled  and 
turned  again  to  SIssie  with  her  remark  about  the 
weather.  SIssIe's  face  came  round  surprised.  She 
disagreed,  making  a  perfect  comment  on  the  change 
that  left  Miriam  marvelling  at  her  steady  ease  of 
mind.  She  agreed  In  an  enthusiastic  paraphrase, 
her  mind  busy  on  the  hidden  source  of  her  random 

—79— 


DEADLOCK 

emphasis.  It  could  rest,  everything  could  rest  for 
awhile,  for  a  little  time  to  come,  for  some  weeks 
perhaps.  .  .  .  But  he  would  bring  all  those  books; 
with  special  meanings  in  them  that  every  one  seemed 
to  understand  and  agree  about;  real  at  the  beginning 
and  then  going  off  into  things  and  never  coming 
back.  Why  could  she  not  understand  them?  Finding 
things  without  following  the  story  was  like  being  inter- 
ested in  a  lesson  without  mastering  what  you  were 
supposed  to  master  and  not  knowing  anything  about 
it  afterwards  that  you  could  pass  on  or  explain.  Yet 
there  was  something,  or  why  did  school  which 
had  left  no  knowledge  and  no  facts  seem  so  alive? 
Why  did  everything  seem  alive  in  a  way  it  was  im- 
possible to  explain?  Perhaps  part  of  the  wrong  of 
being  a  lazy  idiot  was  being  happy  in  a  way  no  one 
else  seemed  to  be  happy. 

If  one  was  an  idiot,  people  like  Mr.  Shatov  would 
not.  .  .  .  He  looked  straight  across,  a  swift  obser- 
vant glance.  She  turned  once  more  towards  Sissie 
making  herself  smilingly  one  with  the  conversation 
that  was  going  on  between  her  and  her  further 
neighbour  and  listened  eagerly  across  the  table; 
"Gracieuse,"  Mr.  Shatov  was  saying  at  the  end  of  a 
sentence,  dropping  from  objection  to  restatement. 
Mr.  Rodkin  had  asked  him  if  he  did  not  think  her 
pretty.  That  would  be  his  word.  He  would  have 
no  other  word.  Mr.  Shatov  had  looked,  considering 
the  matter  for  the  first  time.  ''Gracieuse/'  Surely 
that  was  the  very  last  thing  she  could  be.  But  he 
thought  It. 

Grace  was  a  quality,  not  an  appearance.  Strong- 
minded  and  plain.     That,   she  knew,  was  the  secret 

—80— 


DEADLOCK 

verdict  of  women;  or,  doesn't  know  how  to  make 
the  best  of  herself.  She  pondered,  seeking  in  vain 
for  any  source  of  grace.  Grace  was  delicacy,  refine- 
ment, little  willowy  cattish  movements  of  the  head, 
the  inner  mind  fixed  always  on  the  proprieties, 
making  all  the  improprieties  visible,  .  .  .  streaming 
from  the  back  view  of  their  unconscious  hair.  .   .  . 

A  gracieuse  effect  means  always  deliberate  behav- 
ing. Madame  de  Something.  But  people  who  keep 
it  up  can  never  let  thoughts  take  their  course.  They 
must  behave  to  their  thoughts  as  they  behave  to 
people.  When  they  are  by  themselves  they  can 
only  go  on  mincing  quietly,  waiting  for  their  next 
public  appearance.  When  they  are  not  talking  they 
wait  in  an  attitude,  as  if  they  were  talking;  ready 
to  behave.  Always  on  guard.  Perhaps  that  was 
what  Mr.  Wilson  meant  when  he  said  it  was  the 
business  of  women  to  be  the  custodians  of  manners. 
.  .  .  Their  "sense  of  good  form,  and  their  critical 
and  selective  faculties."  Then  he  had  no  right  to 
be  contemptuous  of  them.  .  .  .  "Donald  Braden 
.  .  .  lying  across  the  dinner  table  ...  a  drink  sod- 
den hull,  swearing  that  he  would  never  again  go  to  a 
dinner-party  where  there  were  no  ladies.".  .  ."Good 
talk  and  particularly  good  stories  are  not  expected  of 
women,  at  dinner  tables.  It's  their  business  to  steer 
the  conversation  and  head  it  off  if  it  gets  out  of 
bounds."  .  .  .  To  simper  and  watch  while  the  men 
were  free  to  be  themselves,  and  then  step  in  if  they 
went  beyond  bounds.  In  other  words  to  head  the  men 
off  if  they  talked  "improperly" ;  thus  showing  their 
knowledge  of  improprieties  .  .  .  "tactfully"  ignor- 
ing them   and  leading  on  to   something  else  with   a 

—81— 


DEADLOCK 

gracious  pose.  Those  were  the  moments  when  the 
improprieties  streamed  from  their  hair.  .  .  .  Some- 
body saying  ssh,  superior  people  talking  together, 
modern  friends-in-council,  a  week  end  in  a  beautiful 
house,  subjects  on  the  menu,  are  you  high  church  or 
low  church,  the  gleam  of  a  woman's  body  through 
water.     "Ssh."     Why?  •  •  •    ^ 

But  her  impression  to  himself  was  good.  A 
French  impression;  that  was  the  extraordinary  thing. 

Without  any  consideration  that  was  the  impression 
she  had  made.  Perhaps  every  one  had  a  sort  of  style, 
and  people  who  liked  you  could  see  it.  The  style  of 
one's  family  would  show,  to  strangers  as  an  unknown 
strange  outside  effect.  Every  one  had  an  effect.  .  .  . 
She  had  an  effect,  a  stamp,  independent  of  anything 
she  thought  or  felt.  It  ought  to  give  one  confidence. 
Because  there  would  certainly  be  some  people  who 
would  not  dislike  it.  But  perhaps  he  had  not  observed 
her  at  all  until  that  moment  and  had  been  misled  by 
her  assumption  of  animation. 

If  I  tried  to  be  gracious,  I  could  never  keep  it  up, 
because  I  always  forget  that  I  am  visible.  She 
called  in  her  eyes,  which  must  have  been  staring  all  the 
time  blankly  about  the  table,  so  many  impressions  had 
she  gathered  of  the  various  groups,  animated  now  in 
their  unconsious  relief  at  the  approaching  end  of  the 
long  sitting.  Here  again  was  one  of  those  moments 
of  being  conscious  of  the  strange  fact  of  her  incurable 
illusion,  and  realizing  its  effects  in  the  past  and  the 
effects  it  must  always  have  if  she  did  not  get  away  from 
it.  Nearly  always  she  must  appear  both  imbecile 
and  rude,  staring,  probably  with  her  mouth  half 
open,  lost.  Well-brought-up  children  were  trained 
out  of  it.     No  one  had  dared  to  try  and  train  her  for 

—82— 


DEADLOCK 

long.  They  had  been  frightened,  or  offended,  by  her 
scorn  of  their  brisk  cheerful  pose  of  polite  interest 
in  the  surface  of  everything  that  was  said.  It  was 
not  worth  doing.  Polite  society  was  not  worth  having. 
Every  time  one  tried  for  awhile,  holding  oneself  in, 
thinking  of  oneself  sitting  there  as  others  were  sitting, 
consciousness  came  to  an  end.  It  meant  having 
opinions.  Taking  sides.  It  presently  narrowed  life 
down  to  a  restive  discomfort.   .   .   . 

Jan  went  about  the  streets  thinking  she  was 
invisible  .  .  .  "and  then  quite  suddenly  I  saw  myself 
in  a  shop  mirror.  My  dear.  I  got  straight  into  an 
omnibus  and  went  home.  I  could  not  stand  the  sight 
of  my  hips."  But  with  people,  in  a  room,  she  never 
forgot  she  was  there. 

The  sight  of  Mr.  Shatov  waiting  for  her  under  the 
gas  in  the  drawing-room  gathered  all  her  thoughts 
together,  struggling  for  simultaneous  expression.  She 
came  slowly  across  the  room,  with  eyes  downcast  to 
avoid  the  dimly-lit  corner  where  he  stood,  and  sought 
rapidly  amongst  the  competing  threads  of  thought  for 
some  fragment  that  could  be  shaped  into  speech  before 
he  should  make  the  communication  she  had  seen 
waiting  in  his  face.  The  sympathetic  form  must  listen 
and  make  some  understanding  response.  She  felt  her- 
self stiffening  in  angry  refusal  to  face  the  banishment 
of  her  tangled  mass  of  thought  by  some  calmly 
oblivious  statement,  beginning  nowhere  and  leading 
them  on  into  baseless  discussion,  impeded  on  her  part 
by  the  pain  of  unstated  vanishing  things.  They  began 
speaking  together  and  he  halted  before  her  formal 
harsh-voiced  words. 
"There  is  always  a  bad  light  on  Saturday  evenings 

-83- 


DEADLOCK 

because  nearly  every  one  goes  out,"  she  said,  and  looked 
her  demand  for  his  recognition  of  the  undischarged 
burden  of  her  mind  impatiently  about  the  room. 

"I  had  not  observed  this,"  he  said  gently,  "but  now 
I  see  the  light  is  indeed  very  bad."  She  watched  him 
as  he  spoke,  waiting,  counting  each  syllable.  He 
paused,  gravely  consulting  her  face;  she  made  no 
effort  to  withhold  the  wave  of  anger  flowing  out  over 
the  words  that  stood  mocking  her  on  the  desolate  air, 
a  bridge,  carrying  them  up  over  the  stream  of  her  mind 
and  forward,  leaving  her  communications  behind  for 
ever.  She  waited,  watching  cynically  for  whatever  he 
might  offer  to  her  dumbness,  wondering  whether  it 
surprised  him,  rebuked  as  she  regarded  him,  by  his 
unchanged  gentle  lustre. 

"Oh  please,''  he  said  hurriedly,  his  downcast  inturned 
smile  suddenly  irradiating  his  forehead,  bringing  down 
the  eyebrows  that  must  have  gone  singing  thoughtfully 
up  as  he  spoke  about  the  light  ...  a  request  of  some 
kind;  one  of  his  extraordinary  unashamed  demands. 
.  .  .  "You  must  help  me.  I  must  immediately  pawn 
my  watch.     Where  is  a  pawning  shop?" 

Miriam  stared  her  consternation. 

"Ah,  no,"  he  said,  his  features  working  with 
embarrassment,  "it  is  not  for  myself.  It  is  my  friend, 
the  Polish  Doctor,  who  was  only  now  here,"  Miriam 
gazed,  plunging  on  through  relief  into  a  chaos  of 
bewildered  admiration. 

"But  you  hardly  know  him,"  she  exclaimed,  sitting 
down  for  more  leisurely  contemplation. 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  he  said  seriously,  taking  the 
chair   on    the   other   side   of   the   little   table.      "Poor 

-84- 


DEADLOCK 

fellow,  he  is  not  long  in  London,  and  has  almost  no 
friends.  He  is  working  in  abstruse  researchings, 
needing  much  spendings  on  materials,  and  is  threatened 
by  his  landlady  to  leave  his  apartments." 

"Did  he  tell  you  this?"  said  Miriam  sceptically  re- 
calling the  Polish  head,  its  smooth  cold  perfect  beauty 
and  indifference. 

"Most  certainly  he  told  me.  He  must  immediately 
have  ten  pounds." 

"Perhaps  you  would  not  get  so  much,"  persisted 
Miriam.      "And  suppose  he  does  not  pay  it  back?" 

"You  are  mistaken.  The  watch,  with  the  chain,  Is 
worth  more  than  the  double  this  sum."  His  face 
expressed  a  grave  simple  finality. 

"But  it  is  a  shame,"  she  cried,  jealously  eyeing  the 
decoration  that  seemed  now  to  have  been  an  essential 
part  of  their  many  meetings.  Without  this  mark  of 
opulence,  he  would  not  be  quite  the  same.   .   .   . 

"Why  a  shame?"  demanded  Mr.  Shatov,  with  his 
little  abrupt  snorting  chuckle.  "I  shall  again  have  my 
watch  when  my  father  shall  send  me  the  next  portion 
of  my  allowance."  He  was  not  counting  on  the  return 
of  the  money!  Next  month,  with  his  allowance,  he 
would  have  the  watch  and  forget  the  incident.  .  .  . 
Wealth  made  life  safe  for  him.  People  could  be 
people  to  him;  even  strangers;  not  threats  or  problems. 
But  even  a  wealthy  Englishman  would  not  calmly 
give  ten  pounds  to  a  disreputable  stranger  ...  he 
would  suspect  him  even  if  he  were  not  disreputable. 
It  might  be  true  that  the  Pole  was  in  honest  difficulties. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  him  really  working 

-85- 


DEADLOCK 

at  anything.     Mr.  Shatov  did  not  feel  this  at  all.  .   .   . 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  any  pawn  shops,"  she 
said,  shrinking  even  from  the  pronunciation  of  the 
word.  She  scanned  her  London.  They  had  always 
been  there  .  .  .  but  she  had  never  noticed  or  thought 
of  them.  ...  "I  don't  remember  ever  having  seen 
one ;  but  I  know  you  are  supposed  to  recognize  them," 
here  was  strange  useful  knowledge,  something  pictur- 
esque floating  in  from  somewhere  .  .  .  "by  three  gold 
balls  hanging  outside  ...  I  have  seen  one,"  they 
were  talking  now,  the  Polish  Doctor  was  fading  away. 
"Yes  ...  on  a  bus,"  his  wide  child's  eyes  were  set 
impersonally  on  what  she  saw,  "somewhere  down  by 
Ludgate  Circus." 

"I  will  at  once  go  there,"  he  said  sitting  leisurely 
back  with  dreaming  eyes  and  his  hands  thrust  into 
his  pockets. 

"Oh  no,"  she  cried,  thrusting  off  the  disaster,  "It 
would  be  closed." 

"That  is  bad,"  he  reflected,  "Ach,  no  matter. 
I  will  write  to  him  that  I  come  on  Monday." 

"He  would  not  get  your  letter  until  Monday." 

"That  is  true.     I  did  not  think  of  this." 

There  must  be  pawn  shops  quite  near;  in  the 
Tottenham  Court  Road.  They  would  still  be  open. 
Not  to  suggest  this  would  be  to  be  responsible  if 
anything  happened  to  the  Pole.  .  .  .  Thrusting  down 
through  the  numbed  mass  of  her  forgotten  thoughts 
to  the  quick  of  her  nature  came  the  realization  that 
she  was  being  tested  and  found  wanting  .  .  .  another 
of  those  moments  had  come  round.  .  .  .  She  glanced 
into  the  open  abyss  at  her  own  form  staring  up  from 
its  depths,  and  through  her  brain  flew,  in  clear  record, 

—86— 


DEADLOCK 

decisive  moments  of  the  past;  her  self,  clearly  visible, 
clothed  as  she  had  been  clothed,  her  poise  and 
bearing  as  she  had  flinched  and  fled.  Here  she  was, 
unchanged,  not  caring  what  happened  to  the  man, 
so  long  as  her  evening  was  not  disturbed  .  .  .  she 
was  a  murderess.  This  was  the  hidden  truth  of  her 
life.  Above  it  her  false  face  turned  from  thing  to 
thing,  happy  and  forgetful  for  years,  until  a  moment 
came  again  to  show  her  that  she  could  face  and  let 
slip  the  risk  of  anything  to  any  one  anywhere,  rather 
than  the  pain  of  renouncing  personal  realization. 
Already  she  was  moving  away.  A  second  sugges- 
tion was  in  her  mind  and  she  was  not  going  to  make 
it.  She  glanced  enviously  at  the  unconscious  kind- 
liness loUing  in  the  opposite  chair.  It  was  clear  to 
its  depths;  unburdened  by  spectres  of  remembered 
cruelty.  .  .  .  But  there  was  also  something  else  that 
was  different  .  .  .  easy  circumstances;  the  certainty, 
from  the  beginning,  of  self-realization.   .   .   . 

"Perhaps  some  one  in  the  house  could  tell  you." 
Oh  stupidity;  blurting  out  anything  to  hide  behind 
the  sound  of  voices. 

"Possibly.  But  it  is  a  delicate  matter.  I  could 
not  for  instance  mention  this  matter  to  Mrs.  Bailey." 

"Do  you  like  him?  Didn't  you  find  him  amongst 
those  dreadful  men  looking  like  monkeys?" 

"At  this  Vienna  cafe.  Ah  indeed  it  is  dreadful 
there  upstairs." 

"He   is  very  handsome." 

"The  Poles  are  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  of 
European  peoples.  They  have  also  immense  courage" 
.  .  .  unsuspicious  thoughtfully  talking  face,  lifting 
her  up  and  out  again  Into  light  and  air.   .   .   .   "But 

-87- 


DEADLOCK 

the  Pole  is  undoubtedly  the  most  treacherous  fellow  In 
Europe."  Grave  live  eyes  flashed  across  at  her, 
easily,  moulding  the  lounging  form  into  shapeliness. 
"He  is  at  the  same  time  of  the  most  distinguished  men- 
tality." Why  should  any  one  help  a  distinguished 
mentality  to  go  on  being  treacherous?  "And  in 
particular  is  this  true  of  the  Polish  Jew.  There  are 
in  all  European  universities  amongst  the  very  most 
distinguished  professors  and  students  very  many 
Polish  Jews."  Le  Juif  Polonais  .  .  .  The  Bells. 
It  was  strange  to  think  of  Polish  Jews  going  on  in 
modern  everyday  life.  .  .  .  But  if  Poles  were  so 
evil.  .  .  .  That  was  Dr.  Veslovsky's  expression. 
Cold  evil. 

"There  was  an  awful  thing  last  week  in  Wobum 
Place." 

"Yes?" 

"Mrs.  Bailey  told  me  about  it.  There  was  a  girl 
who  owed  her  landlady  twenty-five  shillings.  She 
threw  herself  out  of  her  bedroom  window  on  the  top 
floor  because  her  landlady  spoke  to  her  about  it." 

"That  is  terrible,"  whispered  Mr.  Shatov.  His 
eyes  were  dark  with  pain;  his  face  shrunk  as  if  with 
cold.  "That  could  never  happen  in  Russia,"  he 
said  reproachfully. 

"Why  not?" 

"No.  In  Russia  such  a  thing  is  impossible.  And 
in  student  circles  most  particularly.  This  young 
girl  living  in  this  neighbourhood  without  salary  was 
probably  some  sort  of  student." 

"Why?  She  might  have  been  a  governess  out  of 
work  or  a  poor  clerk.  Besides  I  thought  people  were 
always  committing  suicide  In  Russia." 

—88— 


DEADLOCK 

"That  is  of  course  a  gross  exaggeration.  There 
are  certainly  suicides  in  Russia  as  everywhere.  But 
in  Russia  suicide,  which  does  certainly  occur  in 
abnormally  high  frequency  amongst  the  young 
intelligentsia,  arises  from  a  trouble  of  spirit.  They 
are  psychopath.  There  comes  some  spiritual  crisis 
and — phwtt —  ...  It  is  characteristic  of  the  edu- 
cated Slav  mind  to  lose  itself  in  the  face  of  abstractive 
insolubilities.  But  for  need  of  twenty-five  shillings. 
I  find  in  this  something  peculiarly  horrible.  In  midst 
of  your  English  civilization  it  is  pure-barbaric." 

"There  has  not  been  any  civilization  in  the  world 
yet.  We  are  still  all  living  in  caves."  The  quotation 
sounded  less  convincing  than  at  Wimpole  Street.   .   .   . 

"That  is  too  superficial.  Pardon  me,  but  It 
implies  a  too  slight  knowledge  of  what  has  been  in 
the  past  and  what  still  persists  in  various  develop- 
mental stages."  Miriam  felt  about  among  the 
statements  which  occurred  to  her  in  rapid  succession, 
all  contradicting  each  other.  Yet  somebody  in  the 
world  believed  each  one  of  them.  .  .  .  Mr.  Shatov 
was  gravely  waiting,  as  if  for  her  agreement  with 
what  he  had  just  said.  Far  away  below  her  clashing 
thoughts  was  something  she  wanted  to  express,  some- 
thing he  did  not  know,  and  that  yet  she  felt  he  might 
be  able  to  shape  for  her  if  only  she  could  present  it. 
But  between  her  and  this  reality  was  the  embarrass- 
ment of  a  mind  that  could  produce  nothing  but 
quotations.  She  had  no  mind  of  her  own.  It 
seemed  to  be  there  when  she  was  alone;  only  because 
there  was  no  need  to  express  anything.  In  speech 
she  could  produce  only  things  other  people  had  said 
and  with  which   she   did  not  agree.     None   of  them 

-89- 


DEADLOCK 

expressed  the  underlying  thing.  .  .  .  Why  had  she 
not  brought  down  Maeterlinck? 

Mr.  Shatov's  quiet  waiting  had  ended  In  a  flow 
of  eager  talk.  She  turned  unwillingly.  Even  he 
could  go  on,  leaving  things  unfinished,  talking  about 
something  else.  .  .  .  But  his  mind  was  steady. 
The  things  that  were  there  would  not  drop  away. 
She  would  be  able  to  consider  them  .  .  .  watching 
the  effect  of  the  light  of  other  minds  upon  the  things 
that  floated  in  her  own  mind;  so  dreadfully  few  now 
that  he  was  beginning  to  look  at  them;  and  all  ending 
with  the  images  of  people  who  had  said  them,  or  the 
bindings  of  books  where  she  had  found  them  set 
down  .  .  .  yet  she  felt  familiar  with  all  points 
of  view.  Every  generalization  gave  her  the  clue  to 
the  speaker's  mind  .  .  .  wanting  to  hear  no  more, 
only  to  criticize  what  was  said  by  pointing  out,  whether 
she  agreed  with  it  or  no,  the  opposite  point  of 
view.  .   .  . 

She  smiled  encouragingly  towards  his  talk, 
hurriedly  summoning  an  appearance  of  attention 
into  her  absent  eyes  while  she  contemplated  his 
glowing  pallor  and  the  gaze  of  unconscious  wide  in- 
telligence, shining  not  only  towards  her  own,  but  also 
with  such  undisturbed  intentness  upon  what  he  was 
describing.  She  could  think  later  on,  next  year,  when 
he  had  gone  away  leaving  her  to  confront  her  world 
with  a  fresh  armoury.  As  long  as  he  stayed,  he  would 
be  there,  without  effort  or  encouragement  from  her, 
filling  her  spare  hours  with  his  untired  beauty,  draw- 
ing her  along  his  carefully  spun  English  phrases, 
away  from  personal  experiences,  into  a  world  going 
on    Independently    of    them;    unaware    of    the    many 


DEADLOCK 

scattered  interests  waiting  for  her  beyond  this  shabby 
room,  and  yet  making  them  shine  as  he  talked,  newly 
alight  with  rich  superfluous  impersonal  fascination, 
no  longer  isolated,  but  vivid  parts  of  a  whole,  growing 
more  and  more  intelligible  as  he  carried  her  further 
and  further  into  a  life  he  saw  so  distinctly,  that  he 
made  it  hers,  too  quickly  for  her  to  keep  account  of 
the  inpouring  wealth.   .   .   . 

She  beamed  in  spacious  self-congratulation  and 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  his  theme  in  holiday  mood. 
She  was  in  a  theatre,  without  walls,  her  known 
world  and  all  her  memories  spread,  fanwise  about 
her,  all  intent  on  what  she  saw,  changing,  retreating 
to  their  original  form,  coming  forward,  changing 
again,  obliterated,  and  in  some  deep  difficult  way 
challenged  to  renewal.  The  scenes  she  watched 
opened  out  one  behind  the  other  in  clear  perspective, 
the  earlier  ones  remaining  visible,  drawn  aside  into 
bright  light  as  further  backgrounds  opened.  The 
momentary  sound  of  her  own  voice  in  the  room  en- 
couraging his  narrative,  made  no  break;  she  dropped 
her  remarks  at  random  into  his  parentheses,  carefully 
screening  the  bright  centres  as  they  turned  one  by 
one  into  living  memories.   .   .   . 

Suddenly  she  was  back  withering  in  the  cold 
shabby  room  before  the  shock  of  his  breaking  off  to 
suggest  with  a  swift  personal  smile  that  she  herself 
should  go  to  Russia.  For  a  moment  she  stared  at 
him.  He  waited,  smiling  gently.  It  did  not  matter 
that  he  thought  her  worthy.  .  .  .  The  conviction 
that  she  had  already  been  to  Russia,  that  his  sug- 
gestion was  foolish  in  its  recommendation  of  a  vast 
superfluous    undertaking,    hung    like    a    veil    between 

—91— 


DEADLOCK 

her  and  the  experiences  she  now  passed  through  in 
imagining  herself  there.  The  very  things  in  the 
Russian  student  circles  that  had  most  appealed  to  her, 
would  test  and  find  her  out.  She  would  be  one  of 
those  who  would  be  mistrusted  for  not  being  sufficiently 
careless  about  dress  and  hair.  It  would  not  suit  her 
to  catch  up  her  hair  with  one  hairpin.  She  would 
not  be  strong  enough  to  study  all  day  and  half  the 
night  on  bread  and  tea.  She  was  sure  she  could  not 
associate  perpetually  with  men  students,  even  living 
and  sharing  rooms  with  them,  without  the  smallest 
flirtation.  If  she  were  wealthy  like  he,  she  would 
not  so  calmly  accept  having  all  things  in  common; 
poor  she  would  be  uneasy  in  dependence  on  other 
students.  She  sat  judged.  There  was  a  quality 
behind  all  the  scenes,  something  in  the  Russians  that 
she  did  not  possess.  It  was  the  thing  that  made  him 
what  he  was.  ...  It  answered  to  a  call  that  was 
being  made  all  the  time  to  everyone,  everywhere. 
Yet  why  did  so  many  of  them  drink  f 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Shatov.  The  light  was  going 
down.  ''^What  is  this?"  he  asked  staring  up  im- 
patiently at  the  lessening  flame.  "Ah  it  is  simply 
stupid."  He  hurried  away  and  Miriam  heard  his 
voice  shouting  down  to  Mrs.  Bailey  from  the  stair- 
case as  he  went,  and  presently  in  polite  loud-toned 
remonstrance  from  the  top  of  the  basement  stairs. 
The  gas  went  up,  higher  than  it  had  been  before.  It 
must  be  eleven.  It  was  not  fair  to  keep  the  gas 
going  for  two  people.  She  must  wind  up  the  sitting 
and  send  him  away. 

"What  a  piece  of  English  stupidity,"  he  bellowed 
gently,  coming  back  across  the  room. 

"I  suppose  she  is  obliged  to  do  it,"  said  Miriam 
—92— 


DEADLOCK 

feeling  incriminated  by  her  failure  to  resent  the 
proceeding  In  the  past. 

"How  ohliged?" 

"She  has  had  an  awful  time.  She  was  left 
penniless  In  Weymouth." 

"That  Is  bad;  but  It  is  no  cause  for  stupidity." 

"I  know.  She  doesn't  understand.  She  managed 
quite  well  with  lodgers;  she  will  never  make  boarders 
pay.  It's  no  use  giving  her  hints.  The  house  is  full 
of  people  who  don't  pay  their  bills.  There  are  people 
here  who  have  paid  nothing  for  eighteen  months.  She 
has  even  lent  them  money." 

"Is  It  possible?"  he  said  gravely. 

"And  the  Irish  journalist  can't  pay.  He  is  a 
home-ruler." 

"He  Is  a  most  distinguished-looking'  man.  Ah  but 
she  is  stupid/' 

"She  can't  see''  said  Miriam — he  was  interested; 
even  in  these  things.  She  dropped  eagerly  down 
amongst  them.  The  whole  evening  and  ■  all  their 
earlier  Interchange  stood  far  off,  shedding  a  relieving 
light  over  the  dismal  details  and  waiting  to  be 
resumed,  enriched  by  this  sudden  excursion — "that 
when  better  people  come  she  ought  to  alter  things. 
It  Isn't  that  she  would  think  It  wrong,  like  the  doctor 
who  felt  guilty  when  he  bought  a  carriage  to  make 
people  believe  he  had  patients,  though  of  course 
speculation  is  wrong" — she  felt  herself  moving  swiftly 
along,  her  best  memories  with  her  In  the  cheerful 
ring  of  her  voice,  their  quality  discernible  by  him, 
a  kind  of  reply  to  all  he  had  told  her — "because  she 
believes  in  keeping  up  appearances;  but  she  doesn't 
know  how  to   make  people  comfortable."     She   was 

—93— 


DEADLOCK 

creating  a  wrong  impression  but  with  the  right  voice. 
Without  Miss  Scott's  suggestions,  the  discomforts 
would  never  have  occurred  to  her, 

"Ah  she  is  stupid.  That  is  the  whole  thing."  He 
sat  forward  stretching  and  contracting  his  hands  till 
the  muscles  cracked;  his  eyes,  flashing  their  uncon- 
cerned contemptuous  judgment,  were  all  at  once  the 
brilliant  misty  eyes  of  a  child  about  to  be  quenched  by 
sudden  sleep. 

'Wo, "she  said  resentfully,  "she  wants  good  people, 
and  when  they  come  she  has  to  make  all  she  can  out 
of  them.  If  they  stayed  she  would  be  able  to  afford 
to  do  things  better.  Of  course  they  don't  come  back 
or  recommend  her;  and  the  house  is  always  half  empty. 
Her  best  plan  would  be  to  fill  it  with  students  at  a 
fixed  low  figure."  Miss  Scott  again  ...  his  atten- 
tion was  wandering.  .  .  .  "The  dead  flowers/'  he 
was  back  again,  "in  dirty  water  in  a  cracked  vase; 
Sissie  rushing  out,  while  breakfast  is  kept  waiting,  to 
buy  just  enough  butter  for  one  meal." 

"Really?"  he  giggled. 

"She  has  been  most  awfully  good  to  me." 

"Why  not?"  he   chuckled. 

"Do  you  think  you  will  go  and  see  your  Polish 
friend   tomorrow?"     She   watched    anxiously. 

"Yes,"  he  conceded  blinking  sleepily  at  the  end 
of  a  long  yawn.      "I  shall  perhaps  go." 

"He  might  be  driven  to  desperation,"  she  muttered. 
Her  accomplished  evening  was  trembling  in  the 
balance.  Its  hours  had  frittered  away  the  horrible 
stranger's  chance. 

"Ah  no,"  said  Mr.  Shatov  with  a  little  laugh  of  sin- 
cere amusement,  "Veslovski  will  not  do  foolish  things." 

—94— 


DEADLOCK 

She  rose  to  her  feet  on  the  tide  of  her  relief,  meeting, 
as  she  garnered  all  the  hours  of  her  long  day  and 
turned  with  an  out-spreading  sheaf  of  questions 
towards  the  expanses  of  evening  leisure  so  safely  at 
her  disposal  in  the  oncrowding  tomorrows,  the  rebuke 
of  the  brilliantly  burning  midnight  gas. 

"But  tell  me;  how  has  Mrs.  Bailey  been  so  good?" 

He  sat  conversationally  forward  as  if  it  were  the 
beginning  of  the  evening. 

'Oh  well."  She  sought  about  distastefully  amongst 
the  phrases  she  had  collected  in  descriptions  given  to 
her  friends,  conveying  nothing.  Mr.  Shatov  knowing 
the  framework,  would  see  the  detail  alive  and  enhance 
her  own  sense  of  it.     She  glanced  over  the  picture. 

Any  single  selection  would  be  misleading.  There 
was  enough  material  for  days  of  conversation.  He 
was  waiting  eagerly,  not  impatient  after  all  of  personal 
experiences.     Yet  nothing  could  be   told.   .   .  . 

"You  see  she  lets  me  be  amphibious."  Her  voice 
smote  her.  Mrs.  Bailey's  kindliness  was  in  the  room. 
She  was  squandering  Mrs.  Bailey's  gas  in  an  effort 
that  was  swiftly  transforming  itself  under  the  influence 
of  her  desire  to  present  an  adequate  picture  of  her  own 
separate  life.  His  quickening  interest  drove  her  on. 
She  turned  her  eyes  from  the  gas  and  stared  at  the 
carpet,  her  picture  broken  up  and  vanishing  before  the 
pathos  of  its  threadbare  faded  patterns. 

"I'm  neither  a  lodger  nor  a  boarder,"  she  recited 
hurriedly.  "I  have  all  the  advantages  of  a  boarder; 
the  use  of  the  whole  house.  I've  had  this  room  and 
the  piano  to  myself  for  years  on  Sunday  mornings  un- 
til dinner  time,  and  when  there  are  interesting  people 
I  can  go  down  to  dinner.     I   do  for  weeks  on  end 

—95— 


DEADLOCK 

sometimes,  and  it  is  so  convenient  to  be  able  to  have 
meals  on  Sundays." 

"It  is  really  a  most  admirable  arrangement,"  he 
said  heartily. 

"And  last  year  I  had  a  biq^cle  accident.  I  was 
brought  back  here  with  a  very  showy  arm;  in  a  cab. 
Poor  Mrs.  Bailey  fainted.  It  was  not  at  all  serious. 
But  they  gave  me  their  best  room,  the  one  behind  this, 
for  weeks  and  waited  upon  me  most  beautifully,  and 
mind  you  they  did  not  expect  any  compensation,  they 
knew  I  could  not  afford  it." 

"An  injury  that  should  disable  for  so  many  weeks 
shall  not  have  been  a  light  one." 

"That  was  the  doctor.  You  see  it  was  Saturday. 
It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  they  could  find  any 
one  at  all,  and  then  they  found  a  small  surgeon  in 
Gower  Street.  He  stitched  up  my  arm  with  a  rusty 
darning  needle  taken  from  Mrs.  Bailey's  work-basket 
just  as  it  was.  I  told  him  I  had  some  carbolic  in  my 
room;  but  he  said  Nevorr  mind  that.  I'm  not  one  of 
yrr  faddists,  and  bound  it  all  up  and  I  came  down  to 
dinner.  I  had  just  come  back  from  the  first  week  of 
my  holiday;  bicycling  in  Buckinghamshire,  perfect,  1 
never  felt  so  well  in  my  life.  I  was  going  to  Paris 
the  next  day." 

"That  was  indeed  most  unfortunate." 

"Well  I  don't  know.  I  was  going  with  a  woman 
I  did  not  really  know.  I  meant  to  go,  and  she  had 
been  thinking  of  going  and  knew  Paris  and  where  to 
stay  cheaply  and  suggested  we  should  join  forces.  A 
sort  of  marriage  of  convenience.  I  was  not  really  dis- 
appointed. I  was  relieved;  though  awfully  sorry  to 
fail  her.  But  every  one  was  so  kind  I  was  simply 
astonished.     I   spent  the  evening  on  the  sofa  in  the 

— 96 — 


DEADLOCK 

dining-room;  and  they  all  sat  quietly  about  near  me. 
One  man,  a  Swede,  who  had  only  just  arrived,  sat  on 
the  end  of  the  sofa  and  told  Swedish  folk  stories  in  a 
quiet  motherly  voice,  and  turned  out  afterwards  to 
be  the  noisiest,  joUiest,  most  screamingly  funny  man 
we  have  ever  had  here.  About  eleven  o'clock  I  felt 
faint  and  we  discovered  that  my  arm  must  have  broken 
out  again  some  time  before.  Two  of  the  men  rushed 
off  to  find  a  doctor  and  brought  an  extraordinary  little 
old  retired  surgeon  with  white  hair  and  trembling 
hands.  He  wheezed  and  puffed  and  bound  me  up 
afresh  and  went  away  refusing  a  fee.  I  wanted  some 
milk,  and  the  Swede  went  out  at  midnight  and  found 
some  somewhere.  ...  I  come  back  with  at  least 
one  cow  or  I  come  not  at  all.  .  .  .  Of  course  a  week 
later  I  had  stitch  abscesses." 

"But  this  man  was  a  criminal." 

"Yes  wasn't  it  abominable.  Poor  man.  The  two 
doctors  who  saw  my  arm  later  said  that  many  limbs 
have  been  lost  for  less.  He  counted  on  my  being  in 
such  good  health.  He  told  Mrs.  Bailey  I  was  in 
splendid  health.     But  he  sent  in  a  big  bill." 

"I  sincerely  trust  you  did  not  pay  this." 

"I  sent  him  a  description  of  his  operation,  told  him 
the  result  and  said  that  my  friends  considered  that  I 
ought  to  prosecute  him." 

"Certainly  it  was  your  duty." 

"I  don't  know.  I  hate  cornering  people.  It  would 
not  have  made  him  different  and  I  am  no  better  than 
he  is." 

"That  is  a  most  extraordinary  point  of  view." 

"I  was  sorry  afterwards  that  I  had  written  like 
that." 

"Why?" 

—97— 


DEADLOCK 

"Because  he  threw  himself  into  Dublin  Harbour 
a  year  later.  He  must  have  been  in  fearful  difficul- 
ties." 

"No  excuse  for  criminal  neglect." 

"The  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  accident  itself," 
pursued  Miriam  firmly,  grasping  her  midnight  free- 
dom and  gazing  into  the  pattern  her  determination 
that  for  another  few  minutes  no  one  should  come 
up  to  interrupt,  "was  being  so  near  to  death."  She 
glanced  up  to  guage  the  effect  of  her  improvisation. 
The  moment  she  was  now  intent  upon  had  not  been 
"wonderful."  She  would  not  be  able  to  substantiate 
it;  she  had  never  thought  it  through.  It  lay  ahead 
now  for  exploration  if  he  wished,  ready  to  reveal  its 
quality  to  her  for  the  first  time  ...  he  was  sitting 
hunched  against  the  wall  with  his  hands  driven  into 
his  pockets,  waiting  without  resistance,  with  an 
intentness  equal  to  her  own  .  .  .  she  returned  grate- 
fully to  her  carpet.  "It  was  a  skid,"  she  said 
feeling  the  oily  slither  of  her  front  tire.  "I  fell 
with  my  elbow  and  head  between  the  horses'  heels 
and  the  wheel  of  a  dray.  The  back-thrown  hoof  of 
the  near  horse  caught  the  inner  side  of  my  arm, 
and  for  a  long  time  I  saw  the  grey  steel  rim  of 
the  huge  wheel  approaching  my  head.  It  was 
strained  back  with  all  my  force,  my  elbow  pressing 
the  ground,  but  I  thought  it  could  not  miss  me.  There 
was  a  moment  of  absolute  calm;  indifference  almost. 
It  came  after  a  feeling  of  hatred  and  yet  pity  for 
the  wheel.  It  was  so  awful,  wet  and  glittering  grey, 
and  relentless;  and  stupid,  it  could  not  help  going  on." 

"This  was  indeed  a  most  remarkable  psychological 
experience.     It  happens   rarely  to  be   so   near  death 

-98- 


DEADLOCK 

with    full   consciousness.     But   this   absence    of    fear 
must  be  in  you  a  personal  idiosyncrasy." 

"But  I  was  afraid.  The  thing  is  that  you  don't 
go  on  feeling  afraid.     Do  you  see?" 

"I  hear  what  you  say.  But  while  there  is  the 
chance  of  life  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  is  so 
strong."   .   .  . 

"But  that  is  the  surprise;  the  tumult  in  your  body, 
something  surging  up  and  doing  things  without 
thinking." 

"Instinctive   nervous   reaction." 

"But  there  is  something  else.  In  the  moment  you 
are  sure  you  are  going  to  be  killed,  death  changes. 
You  wait,  for  the  moment  after." 

"That  is  an  illusion,  the  strength  of  life  in  you 
that  cannot,  midst  good  health,  accept  death.  But 
tell  me;  your  arm  was  certainly  broken?"  His  gently 
breathed  question  took  away  the  sting  of  his  statement. 

"No.  The  wheel  went  over  it  just  above  the  bend 
of  the  elbow.  I  did  not  feel  It,  and  got  up  feeling 
only  a  little  dizzy  just  for  a  moment  and  horribly 
annoyed  at  the  crowd  round  me.  But  the  two  men 
who  were  riding  with  me  told  me  afterwards  that 
my  face  was  grey  and  my  eyes  quite  black." 

"That  was  shock."     He  rose  and  stood  facing  her, 
in  shadow;  dark  and  frock-coated,  like  a  doctor. 

"Yes;  but  I  mean  it  shows  that  things  look  worse 
than  they  are." 

"That  Is  most  certainly  a  deduction  that  might  be 
drawn.  Nevertheless  you  suffered  a  most  formid- 
able shock.'' 

She  moved  towards  the  gas  looking  decisively  up 
at   It;    and   felt   herself   standing  unexpressed,   under 

—99— 


DEADLOCK 

the  wide  arch  of  all  they  had  said.  He  must  be  told 
to  remember  to  put  out  the  gas  before  he  went.  That 
said,  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  reluctant 
departure. 


— 100 — 


CHAPTER    III 

THREE  months  ago  the  Christmas  had  been 
a  goal  for  which  she  could  hardly  wait.  It 
had  offered  her,  this  time,  more  than  Its  usual  safe 
deep  firelit  seclusion  beyond  which  no  future  was 
visible.  It  was  to  pay  her  in  full  for  having  missed 
the  beginning  of  Eve's  venture,  taking  her  down  Into 
the  midst  of  it  when  everything  was  in  order  and 
the  beginnings  still  near  enough  to  be  remembered. 
But  having  remained  during  the  engrossing  months, 
forgotten,  at  the  same  far-distant  point,  Christmas 
now  suddenly  reared  itself  up  a  few  days  off,  offering 
nothing  but  the  shadow  of  an  unavoidable  Interruption. 
For  the  first  time  she  could  see  life  going  on  beyond 
it.  She  would  go  down  into  its  Irrelevance,  taking 
part  in  everything  with  absent-minded  animation, 
looking  towards  her  return  to  town.  It  would  not 
be  Christmas,  and  the  long  days  of  forced  absence 
threatened  the  features  of  the  year  that  rose,  far 
away  and  uncertain,  beyond  the  obstruction. 

But  the  afternoon  she  came  home  with  four  days 
holiday  in  her  hand,  past  and  future  were  swept  from 
her  path.  Tomorrow's  journey  was  a  far-off  appoint- 
ment, her  London  friends  remote  shadows,  banished 
from  the  endless  continuance  of  life.  She  wandered 
about  between  Wimpole  Street  and  St.  Pancras, 
holding  in  imagination  wordless  converse  with  a 
stranger  whose  whole  experience  had  melted  and  van- 

—  loi — 


DEADLOCK 

ished  like  her  own,  into  the  flow  of  light  down  the 
streets;  into  the  unending  joy  of  the  way  the  angles  of 
buildings  cut  themselves  out  against  the  sky,  glorious 
if  she  paused  to  survey  them;  and  almost  unendurably 
wonderful,  keeping  her  hurrying  on,  pressing,  through 
insufficient  silent  outcries,  towards  something,  any- 
thing, even  instant  death,  if  only  they  could  be  ex- 
pressed when  they  moved  with  her  movement,  a  maze 
of  shapes,  flowing,  tilting  into  each  other,  in  endless 
patterns,  sharp  against  the  light;  sharing  her  joy  in 
the  changing  same  same  song  of  the  London  traffic; 
the  bliss  of  post-offices  and  railway  stations,  cabs  going 
on  and  on  towards  unknown  space ;  omnibuses  rumbling 
securely  from  point  to  point,  always  within  the  magic 
circle  of  London. 

Her  meal  was  a  crowded  dinner-party,  all  the 
people  in  the  restaurant  its  guests,  plunging  with  her, 
released  from  experience,  unhaunted  by  hope  or  regret, 
into  the  endless  beginning.  Into  the  wrapped  con- 
templation of  the  gathering,  the  thought  of  her  visit 
flashed  like  a  star,  dropping  towards  her,  and  when  she 
was  gathering  things  together  for  her  packing,  her 
eagerness  flamed  up  and  lit  her  room. 

.  .  .  The  many  Christmases  with  the  Brooms 
had  been  part  of  her  long  run  of  escape  from  the 
pain-shadowed  family  life;  their  house  at  first  a  dream- 
house  in  the  unbroken  dream  of  her  own  life  in  London, 
a  shelter  where  agony  was  unknown,  and  lately  a 
forgetfulness,  for  the  long  days  of  the  holiday,  of  the 
challenge  that  lived  in  the  walls  of  her  room.  For 
so  long  the  walls  had  ceased  to  be  the  thrilled  com- 
panions of  her  freedom,  they  had  seen  her  endless 
ev^ening  hours  of  waiting  for  the  next  day  to  entangle 
her  in  its  odious  revolution.     They  had  watched  her 

— 102 — 


DEADLOCK 

in  bleak  daylight  listening  to  life  going  on  obliviously 
all  round  her,  and  scornfully  sped  her  desperate 
excursions  into  other  lives,  greeting  her  empty  glad 
return  with  the  reminder  that  relief  would  fade,  leav- 
ing her  alone  again  with  their  unanswered  challenge. 
They  knew  the  recurring  picture  of  a  form,  drifting, 
grey  face  upwards,  under  a  featureless  grey  sky,  in 
shallows,  "unreached  by  the  human  tide,"  and  had 
seen  its  realization  in  her  vain  prayer  that  life  should 
not  pass  her  by;  mocking  the  echoes  of  her  cry,  and 
waiting  indifferent,  serene  with  the  years  they  knew 
before  she  came,  for  those  that  would  follow  her 
meaningless  impermanence.  When  she  lost  the  sense 
of  herself  in  moments  of  gladness,  or  in  the  long 
intervals  of  thought  that  encircled  her  intermittent 
reading,  they  were  all  round  her,  waiting,  ready  to 
remind  her,  undeceived  by  her  daily  busy  passing  in 
and  out,  relentlessly  counting  its  secret  accumulating 
shame. 

During  the  last  three  months  they  had  not  troubled 
her.  They  had  become  transparent,  while  the  in- 
fluence of  her  summer  still  had  them  at  bay,  to  the 
glow  shed  up  from  the  hours  she  had  spent  downstairs 
with  Mrs.  Bailey,  and  before  there  was  time  for  them 
to  close  round  her  once  more,  the  figure  of  Michael 
Shatov,  with  Europe  stretching  wide  behind  him,  had 
forced  them  into  companionship  with  all  the  walls 
in  the  world.  She  had  been  conscious  that  they  waited 
for  his  departure;  but  it  was  far  away  out  of  sight, 
and  when  she  should  be  once  more  alone  with  them, 
their  attack  would  find  her  surrounded;  lives  lived 
alone  within  the  vanquished  walls  of  single  poor  bare 
rooms  in  every  town  in  Europe  would  come  visibly 
to  her  aid,  driving  her  own  walls  back  into  dependence. 

—103— 


DEADLOCK 

But  tonight  they  were  radiant.  On  no  walls  in 
the  world  could  there  be  a  brighter  light.  Streaming 
from  their  gaslit  spaces,  wherever  she  turned,  was 
the  wide  brilliance  that  had  been  on  everything  in  the 
days  standing  behind  the  shadow  that  had  driven  her 
into  their  enclosure.  Eva  and  Harriett,  waiting  for 
her  together,  in  a  new  sunlit  life,  were  the  full  answer 
to  their  challenge.  She  was  going  home.  The  walls 
were  traveller's  walls.  That  had  been  their  first 
fascination;  but  they  had  known  her  only  as  a  travel- 
ler; now  as  she  dipped  into  the  unbroken  life  that 
would  flow  around  her  at  the  sound  of  her  sisters' 
blended  voices,  they  knew  whence  she  came  and  what 
had  been  left  behind.  They  saw  her  years  of  travel 
contract  to  a  few  easily  afforded  moments,  lit  though 
she  had  not  known  it,  by  light  instreaming  from  the 
past  and  flowing  now  visibly  ahead  across  the  farther 
years. 

The  distant  forgotten  forms  of  the  friends  of  her 
London  life,  turning  away  slighted,  filled  her,  watching 
them,  with  a  half-repenting  solicitude.  But  they  had 
their  mysterious  secret  life,  incomprehensible,  but 
their  own;  they  turned  away  towards  each  other  and 
their  own  affairs,  all  of  them  set,  at  varying  angles, 
unquestoningly  towards  a  prospect  she  did  not  wish 
to  share. 

She  went  eagerly  to  sleep  and  woke  in  a  few 
moments  in  a  morning  whose  sounds  coming  through 
the  open  window,  called  to  her  as  she  leapt  out  towards 
them,  for  responsive  demonstrations.  Her  desire  to 
shout,  thrilled  to  her  feet,  winged  them. 

Sitting  decorously  at  the  breakfast-table,  she  felt 
in  equal  relationship  to  all  the  bright  assembly,  holding 
off  Mr.  Shatov's  efforts  to  engage  her  in  direct  con- 

— 104 — 


DEADLOCK 

versation,  that  she  might  hear,  thoughtless  and 
uncomprehending,  the  general  sound  of  interwoven 
bright  inflections  echoing  quietly  out  into  the  vast 
morning.  She  ran  out  into  it,  sending  off  her  needless 
telegram  for  the  joy  of  skimming  over  the  well-known 
flags  with  endless  time  to  spare.  The  echoing  London 
sky  poured  down  upon  them  the  light  of  all  the  world. 
Within  it  her  share  gleamed  dancing,  given  to  her  by 
the  London  years,  the  London  life,  shining  now,  far 
away,  in  multitudinous  detail,  the  contemplated 
enviable  life  of  a  stranger. 

The  third-class  carriage  was  stuffy  and  cold, 
crowded  with  excited  travellers  whose  separate  eyes 
strove  in  vain  to  reach  the  heart  of  the  occasion 
through  a  ceaseless  exclamatory  interchange  about 
what  lay  just  behind  them  and  ahead  at  the  end  of  the 
journey.  ...  At  some  time,  for  some  moments  dur- 
ing the  ensuing  days,  each  one  of  them  would  be  alone. 
.  .  .  Consulting  the  many  pairs  of  eyes,  so  different 
yet  so  strangely  alike  in  their  method  of  contempla- 
tion, so  hindered  and  distracted,  she  felt,  with  a  sti- 
fling pang  of  conviction,  that  their  days  would  pass  and 
bring  no  solitude,  no  single  touch  of  realization  and 
leave  them  going  on,  with  eyes  still  quenched  and 
glazed,  striving  outwards,  now  here  now  there,  to 
reach  some  unapprehended  goal. 

Immersing  herself  in  her  corner  she  saw  nothing 
more  until  Eve's  face  appeared  in  the  crowd  waiting 
upon  the  seaside  platform.  Eve  beamed  welcome  and 
eager  wordless  communications  and  turned  at  once 
to  lead  the  way  through  the  throng.  They  hurried, 
separated  by  Miriam's  hand-luggage,  silenced  by  the 
din  of  the  traffic  rattling  over  the  cobblestones,  meeting 
and  parting  amongst  the  thronging  pedestrians,  down 

—105— 


DEADLOCK 

the  steep  slope  of  the  narrow  street  until  Eve  turned, 
with  a  piloting  backward  glance,  and  led  the  way  along 
the  cobbled  pavement  of  a  side-street,  still  narrower 
and  sloping  even  more  steeply  downhill.  It  was 
deserted,  and  as  they  went  single-file  along  the  narrow 
pavement,  Miriam  caught  in  the  distance,  the  un- 
wonted sound  of  the  winter  sea.  She  had  not  thought 
of  the  sea  as  part  of  her  visit,  and  lost  herself  in  the 
faint  famihar  roll  and  flump  of  the  south-coast  tide. 
It  was  enough.  The  holiday  came  and  passed  in  the 
imagined  sight  of  the  waves  tumbling  in  over  the  grey 
beach,  and  the  breaking  of  the  brilliant  seaside  light 
upon  the  varying  house-fronts  behind  the  promenade, 
she  returned  restored;  the  prize  of  far-off  London 
renewed  already,  keenly,  within  her  hands,  to  find  Eve 
standing  still  just  ahead,  turned  towards  her;  smiling 
too  breathlessly  for  speech.  They  were  in  front  of  a 
tiny  shop-front,  slanting  with  the  steep  slant  of  the 
little  road.  The  window  was  full  of  things  set  close 
to  the  panes  on  narrow  shelves.  Miriam  stood  back, 
pouring  out  her  appreciation.  It  was  perfect;  just  as 
she  had  imagined  it;  exactly  the  little  shop  she  had 
dreamed  of  keeping  when  she  was  a  child.  She  felt  a 
pang  of  envy. 

"Mine,"  said  Eve  blissfully,  "my  own."  Eve  had 
property;  fragile  delicate  Eve,  the  problem  of  the 
family.  This  was  her  triumph.  Miriam  hurried,  lest 
her  thoughts  should  become  visible,  to  glance  up  and 
down  the  street  and  exclaim  the  perfection  of  the 
situation. 

"I  know,"  said  Eve  with  dreamy  tenderness,  "and 
it's  all  my  own;  the  shop  and  the  house;  all  mine." 
Miriam's    eyes   rose    fearfully.     Above   the   shop,    a 

— 106— 


DEADLOCK 

narrow  strip  of  bright  white  plaster  house  shot  up, 
two  storeys  high ;  charming,  in  the  way  it  was  complete, 
a  house,  and  yet  the  whole  of  it,  with  a  strip  of  sky 
above,  and  the  small  neat  pavement  below,  in  your  eye 
at  once,  and  beside  it  right  and  left,  the  irregular 
heights  and  widths  of  the  small  houses,  close-built 
and  flush  with  the  edge  of  the  little  pavement,  up  and 
down  the  hill.  But  the  thought  of  the  number  of 
rooms  inside  the  little  building  brought,  together  with 
her  longing  to  see  them,  a  sense  of  the  burden  of 
possessions,  and  her  envy  disappeared.  While  she 
cried  you've  got  a  house,  she  wondered,  scanning  Eve's 
radiant  slender  form,  whence  she  drew,  with  all  her 
apparent  helplessness,  the  strength  to  face  such 
formidable  things. 

"I've  let  the  two  rooms  over  the  shop.  I  live  at 
the  top."  As  she  exclaimed  on  the  implied  wealth, 
Miriam  found  her  envy  wandering  back  in  the  thought 
of  the  two  rooms  under  the  sky,  well  away  from  the 
shop  in  another  world,  the  rest  of  the  house  securely 
cared  for  by  other  people.  She  moved  to  the 
window.  "All  the  right  things,"  she  murmured,  from 
her  shocked  survey  of  the  rows  of  light  green  bottles 
filled  with  sweets,  the  boxes  of  soap,  cigarettes,  clay 
pipes,  bootlaces,  jewellery  pinned  to  cards,  crackers 
and  tightly  packed  pink  and  white  muslin  Christmas 
stockings.  Between  the  shelves  she  saw  the  crowded 
interior  of  the  little  shop,  a  strip  of  counter,  a  man 
with  rolled  up  shirt  sleeves,  busily  twisting  a  small 
screw  of  paper.   .   .      Gerald. 

"Come  inside,"  said  Eve  from  the  door. 

"Hullo,  Mirry,  what  d'you  think  of  the  emporium?" 
Gerald,    his   old   easy   manner,    his    smooth    polished 

— 107 — 


DEADLOCK 

gentle  voice,  his  neat,  iron  handshake  across  the  mean 
little  counter,  gave  Eve's  enterprise  the  approval  of  all 
the  world.  "I've  done  up  enough  screws  of  tea  to 
last  you  the  whole  blessed  evening,"  he  went  on  from 
the  midst  of  Miriam's  exclamations,  "and  at  least 
twenty  people  have  been  in  since  you  left."  A  little 
door  flew  open  in  the  wall  just  behind  him  and  Har- 
riett, in  an  overall,  stood  at  the  top  of  a  short  flight 
of  stairs,  leaping  up  and  down  in  the  doorway. 
Miriam  ran  round  behind  the  counter,  freely,  Eve's 
shop,  their  shop,  behind  her.  "Hulloh  old  silly," 
beamed  Harriett  kissing  and  shaking  her,  "I  just  rushed 
down,  can't  stay  a  minute,  I'm  in  the  middle  of  nine 
dinners,  they're  all  leaving  tomorrow  and  you're  to 
come  and  sleep  with  us."  She  fled  down  the  steps, 
out  through  the  shop  and  away  up  the  hill,  with  a 
rousing  attack  on  Gerald  as  she  passed  him  leaning 
with  Eve  over  the  till.  Miriam  was  welcomed.  The 
fact  of  her  visit  was  more  to  Harriett  than  her  lodgers. 
She  collected  her  belongings  and  carried  them  up  the 
steps  past  a  small  dark  flight  of  stairs  into  a  dark 
little  room.  A  small  fire  was  burning  in  a  tiny  kitchen 
range ;  a  candle  guttered  on  the  mantlepiece  in  the 
draught  from  the  shop;  there  was  no  window  and  the 
air  of  the  room  was  close  with  the  combined  odours  of 
the  things  crowded  into  the  small  space.  She  went 
back  into  the  bright  familiar  shop.  Gerald  was  leav- 
ing: "See  you  tomorrow,"  he  called  from  the  door 
with  his  smile. 

''''Now;  I'll  light  the  lamp  and  we'll  be  cosy,"  said 
Eve  leading  the  way  back  into  the  little  room.  Mir- 
iam waited  impatiently  for  the  lamp  to  make  a  live 
centre    in     the    crowded    gloom.       The    little    black 

—108— 


DEADLOCK 

kitchen  fire  was  intolerable  as  president  of  Eve's 
leisure.  But  the  dim  lamp,  standing  low  on  a  little 
table,  made  the  room  gloomier  and  Eve  was  back  in 
the  shop  with  a  customer.  Only  the  dingy  little  table, 
a  battered  tray  bearing  the  remains  of  a  hasty,  shabby 
tea,  the  fall  below  it  of  a  faded,  ugly,  fringed  table- 
cloth and  a  patch  of  threadbare  carpet,  were  clearly  vis- 
ible. V .  .  She  couldjndt  remove  her  attention  from  them. 
Lying  sleepless  by  Eve's  side  late  that  night,  she 
watched  the  pictures  that  crowded  the  darkness. 
Her  first  moments  in  the  little  back  room  were  far 
away.  The  small  dark  bedroom  was  full  of  the  last 
picture  of  Eve,  in  her  nightgown,  quietly  relentless 
after  explaining  that  she  always  kept  the  window  shut 
because  plenty  of  air  came  in,  taking  a  heavy  string 
of  large  blue  beads  out  of  her  top  drawer,  to  put 
them  in  readiness  with  tomorrow's  dress.  No;  I  don't 
think  that  a  bit;  and  if  I  were  a  savage,  I  should  hang 
myself  all  over  with  beads  and  love  it.  She  had 
spoken  with  such  conviction.  .  .  .  Up  here,  with  her 
things  arranged  round  her  as  she  had  had  them  at 
home  and  in  her  bedroom  at  the  Greens',  she  kept 
her  life  as  it  had  always  been.  She  was  still  her  un- 
changed self,  but  her  freedom  was  giving  her  the 
strength  to  be  sure  of  her  opinions.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  saying  all  the  evening  with  long  accumulating 
preparedness,  holding  her  poise  throughout  the  inter- 
ruptions of  customers  and  down  into  the  details  of 
the  story  of  her  adventures.  Yes  I  know  your 
opinions,  I  have  heard  them  all  my  life,  and  now  I'm 
out  in  the  world  myself  and  can  meet  everybody  as 
an  equal,  and  say  what  I  think,  without  wondering 
whether  it  suits  my  part  as   the  Greens'   governess. 

— 109 — 


DEADLOCK 

She  had  got  her  strength  from  the  things  she  had 
done.  It  was  amazing  to  think  of  her  summoning 
courage  to  break  again  with  the  Greens  and  borrow- 
ing from  them  to  start  in  business,  Mr.  Green  "setting 
his  heart"  on  the  success  of  the  little  shop  and  meaning 
to  come  down  and  see  how  it  was  getting  on.  How 
awful  it  would  be  if  it  did  not  get  on.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  getting  on.  .  .  .  How  terrifying  it  must  have 
been  at  first  not  knowing  the  price  of  anything  in 
the  shop  or  what  to  buy  for  it  .  .  .  and  then,  cus- 
tomers telling  her  the  prices  of  things  and  where  they 
were  kept,  and  travellers  being  kind;  respectful  and 
friendly  and  ready  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  do  any- 
thing .  .  .  that  was  the  other  side  of  Maupassant's 
"hourrah  pour  la  petite  difference"  commis  voyageurs 
.  .  .  and  well-to-do  people  in  the  neighbourhood  rush- 
ing in  for  some  little  thing,  taken  aback  to  find  a  lady 
behind  the  counter,  and  coming  again  for  all  sorts  of 
things.  .  .  .  Eve  would  become  like  one  of  those 
middle-aged  women  shop-keepers  in  books,  in  the  coun- 
try, with  a  kind  heart  and  a  sarcastic  tongue,  seeing 
through  everybody  and  having  the  same  manner  for  the 
vicar  and  a  ploughman,  or  a  rather  nicer  manner  for 
a  ploughman.     No.     Eve  was  still  sentimental.   .   .   . 

Those  wonderful  letters  were  a  bridge;  a  promise 
for  the  future.  .  .  .  They  were  the  letters  of  a  boy; 
that  was  the  struggling  impression  she  had  not  been 
able  to  convey.  She  could  start  the  day  well  by  telling 
Eve  that  In  the  morning.  They  were  the  letters  of 
a  youth  In  love  for  the  first  time  In  his  life  .  .  .  and 
he  had  fifteen  grandchildren.  "So  wonderful  when 
you  think  of  that  old,  old  man,"  had  not  expressed  it 
at    all.     They    were    wonderful    for    anybody.      Page 


DEADLOCK 

after  page,  all  breathing  out  the  way  things  shine 
when  the  sense  of  some  one  who  is  not  there,  is  there 
all  the  time.  Eve  knew  what  it  had  meant  to  him; 
"age  makes  no  difference."  Then  might  life  suddenly 
shine  like  that  at  any  moment,  right  up  to  the  end.  .  .  . 
And  it  made  Eve  so  wonderful;  having  no  idea,  all 
those  years,  and  thinking  him  just  a  very  kind  old 
man  to  come,  driving,  almost  from  his  deathbed,  with 
a  little  rose-tree  in  the  carriage  for  her.  It  was 
so  perfect  that  he  wrote  only  after  she  had  gone,  and 
he  knew  he  was  dying;  a  youth  in  love  for  the  first 
time.  If  there  were  a  future  life  he  would  be  watch- 
ing for  Eve  to  walk  gently  in  crowned  with  song  and 
making  everything  sing  all  round  her.  .  .  .  But  what 
of  the  wife,  and  of  Eve's  future  husband?  In  Heaven 
there  is  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage  .  .  , 
but  Kingsley  said,  then  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  me 
and  my  wife.  Perhaps  that  was  an  example  of  the 
things  he  suddenly  thought  of,  walking  quickly  up 
and  down  the  garden  with  a  friend,  and  introduced 
by  saying,  "I  have  always  thought.".  .  .  But  perhaps 
the  things  that  occur  to  you  suddenly  for  the  first  time 
in  conversation  are  the  things  you  have  always  thought, 
without  knowing  it  .  .  .  that  was  one  of  the  good 
things  in  talking  to  Michael  Shatov,  finding  out 
thoughts,  looking  at  them  when  they  were  expressed 
and  deciding  to  change  them,  or  think  them  more 
decidedly  than  ever  .  .  .  she  could  explain  all  that 
to  Eve  in  the  morning  as  an  introduction  to  him. 
Or  perhaps  she  could  again  say,  having  Eve's  attention 
free  of  the  shop,  "I  have  two  pounds  to  spend  on 
chocolate.  Isn't  it  extraordinary.  I  must,  I  am  on 
my  honour,"  and  then  go  on.     It  was  horrible  that  Eve 

— Ill — 


DEADLOCK 

had  hardly  noticed  such  a  startling  remark.  .  .  .  She 
turned  impatiently;  the  morning  would  never  come; 
she  would  never  sleep  in  this  stagnant  shut-in  motion- 
less air.  Tomorrow  night  she  would  be  in  a  room 
by  herself  at  Harry's;  but  not  quite  so  near  to  the  sea. 
How  could  Eve  shut  out  life  and  the  sound  of  the 
sea?  She  puffed  her  annoyance,  hardly  caring  if  Eve 
were  disturbed,  ready  to  ask  her  if  she  could  not  smell 
the  smell  of  the  house  and  the  shop  and  the  little 
back  room.  But  that  was  not  true.  She  was  im- 
agining it  because  the  motionless  air  was  getting  on 
her  nerves.  If  she  could  not  forget  it  she  would  have 
no  sleep  until  she  dozed  with  exhaustion  in  the  morning. 
And  tomorrow  was  Christmas  Day.  She  lay  still, 
straining  her  ears  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

The  next  night  the  air  poured  in  at  an  open  window, 
silently  lifting  long  light  muslin  curtains  and  waving 
them  about  the  little  narrow  room  filled  as  with  moon- 
light by  the  soft  blue  light  from  the  street-lamp  below. 
The  sound  of  the  sea  drowned  the  present  in  the  sense 
of  sea-side  summers;  bringing  back  moments  of  chance 
wakenings  on  sea-side  holidays,  when  the  high  blaze 
of  yesterday  and  tomorrow  were  together  in  the 
darkness.  Miriam  slept  at  once  and  woke  refreshed 
and  careless  in  the  frosty  sunrise.  Her  room  was 
blazing  with  golden  light.  She  lay  motionless,  con- 
templating it.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  house.  She 
could  watch  the  sunlight  till  something  happened. 
Harry  would  see  that  she  got  up  in  time  for  breakfast. 
There  would  be  sunlight  at  breakfast  in  the  room 
below;  and  Harry  and  Gerald  and  the  remains  of 
Christmas  leisure.  .  .  .  "We  only  keep  going  because 
of  Elspeth."      How  could  she  have  gone  off  to  sleep 

— 112 — 


DEADLOCK 

last  night  without  recalling  that?  If  Harry  and 
Gerald  found  marriage  a  failure,  it  was  a  failure. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  passing  phase  and  they  would  think 
differently  later  on.  But  they  had  spoken  so  simply, 
as  if  it  were  a  commonplace  fact  known  to  everybody 
.  .  .  they  had  met  so  many  people  by  this  time. 
Nearly  all  their  lodgers  had  been  married  and  un- 
happy. Perhaps  that  was  because  they  were  nearly 
all  theatrical  people?  If  Harry  had  stayed  in  London 
and  not  had  to  work  for  a  living  would  she  have  been 
happier?  No;  she  was  gayer  down  here;  even  more 
herself.  It  amused  her  to  have  rushes,  and  turn  out 
three  rooms  after  ten  o'clock  at  night.  They  both 
seemed  to  run  the  house  as  a  sort  of  joke,  and  remained 
absolutely  themselves.  Perhaps  that  was  just 
in  talking  about  it,  at  Christmas,  to  her.  It  certainly 
must  be  horrible  in  the  season,  as  Harry  said,  the 
best  part  of  the  house  packed  with  selfish  strangers 
for  the  very  best  part  of  the  year;  so  much  to  do 
for  them  all  day  that  there  was  never  even  time 
to  run  down  to  the  sea.  .  .  .  Visitors  did  not  think 
of  that.  If  they  considered  their  landlady  it  would 
spoil  their  one  fortnight  of  being  free.  Landladies 
ought  to  be  old;  not  minding  about  working  all  day 
for  other  people  and  never  seeing  the  sea.  Harry 
was  too  young  to  be  a  landlady  ...  the  gently 
moving  curtains  were  flat  against  the  window  again 
for  a  moment,  a  veil  of  thin  muslin  screening  the 
brilliant  gold,  making  it  an  even  tone  all  over  the 
room;  a  little  oblong  of  misty  golden  light.  Even 
for  Harry's  sake  she  could  not  let  any  tinge  of  sadness 
invade  it.  .  .  .  That  was  being  exactly  like  the 
summer  visitors.   .   .   . 

—113— 


DEADLOCK 

"Good  Gracious/"  The  door  was  open  and  Harry, 
entering  with  a  jug  of  hot  water  was  enveloped  in 
the  ends  of  the  out-blown  curtains.  "Why  on  Earth 
d'you  have  your  window  like  that  ?     It's  simply  bitter." 

"I  love  it,"  said  Miriam,  watching  Harriett's  active 
little  moving  form  battle  with  the  flying  draperies, 
"I'm  revelling  in  it." 

"Well  I  won't  presume  to  shut  it;  but  revel  up. 
Here  you  are.  Breakfast's  nearly  ready.  Hold  the 
ends  while  I  get  out  and  shut  the  door." 

Harry  too;  and  she  used  to  be  so  fond  of  open 
windows.  But  it  was  not  a  snub.  She  would  say  to 
Gerald  she's  got  her  window  bang  open,  isn't  she  an 
old  Cure?  She  got  out  singing  into  the  fresh  golden 
air  leaving  the  window  wide.  The  London  temptation 
to  shirk  her  swift  shampoo  and  huddle  on  a  garment 
did  not  come.  The  sense  of  summer  was  so  strong 
in  the  bright  air  that  she  felt  sure,  if  only  she  could 
have  always  bright  screened  light  in  her  room,  summer 
warmth  and  summer  happiness  would  last  the  whole 
year  round. 

Gerald  was  pouring  out  coffee.  In  the  kitchen 
the  voices  of  Harriett  and  Mrs.  Thimm  were  railing 
cheerfully  together.  Harriett  came  in  with  a  rush, 
slamming  the  door,  "Is  it  too  warm  for  you  in  here 
Miss  Henderson?"  she  asked  as  she  drove  Gerald  to 
his  own  end  of  the  table. 

"It's  glorious,"  said  Miriam  subsiding  into  indefinite 
anticipation.  The  room  was  very  warm  with  sunlight 
and  a  blazing  fire.  But  there  was  no  pressure  any- 
where. It  was  their  youth  and  the  way  being  with 
them  made  things  go  backwards  as  far  as  one  could 
see    and    confidently    forward    from    any    room    they 

—  114— 


DEADLOCK 

happened  to  be  in.  A  meal  with  them  always  seemed 
as  if  it  might  go  on  for  ever.  She  glanced  affection- 
ately from  one  to  the  other,  longing  to  convey  to 
them  in  some  form  of  words  the  thing  they  did  not 
seem  to  know,  the  effect  they  made,  together,  through 
having  been  together  from  such  early  beginnings,  how 
it  gave  and  must  always  give  a  confidence  to  the  very 
expression  of  their  hair,  making  them  always  about  to 
start  life  together.  It  came  from  Harriett,  and  was 
reflected  by  Gerald,  a  light  that  played  about  him, 
decking  him  in  his  most  unconscious,  busy,  man's 
moments  with  the  credit  of  having  found  Harriett. 
They  seemed  more  suitably  arranged,  confronted  here 
together  in  this  bright  eventful  house,  m'eeting 
adventures  together,  mutually  efficient  towards  a 
common  end,  than  with  Gerald  in  business  and  Harry 
silken  and  leisurely  in  a  suburban  house.   .   .   . 

"We'll  be  more  glorious  in  a  minute,"  said  Gerald 
sweeping  actively  about.  "I'll  just  movei  that  old 
fern." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  mocked  Harriett,  ^Hook  at  the 
importance  .   .   ." 

Whistling  softly  Gerald  placed  a  small  square  box 
on  the  table  amongst  the  breakfast  things. 

"0/z,  dear  me,"  moaned  Harriett  from  behind  the 
coffee  pot,  smirking  coyly  backwards  over  her  shoul- 
der, "hoh,  ar'n't  we  grand."  It's  the  new  toy/' 
she  rapped  avertedly  towards  Miriam,  in  a  despairing 
whisper.  Gerald  interrupted  his  whistling  to  fix  on 
to  the  box  a  sort  of  trumpet,  a  thing  that  looked  like 
a  wide-open  green  nasturtium. 

"Is  it  a  musical  box?"  asked  Miriam. 

"D'you  mean  to  say  you've  never   seen  a   gramo- 
—115— 


DEADLOCK 

phone  yet?"  murmured  Gerald,  frowning  and  flicking 
away  dust  with  his  handkerchief.  They  did  not  mean 
as  much  as  they  appeared  to  do  when  they  said  life 
was  not  worth  living  .  .  .  they  had  not  discovered 
life.  Gerald  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  his  interest 
in  things.  "People  grieve  and  bemoan  themselves, 
but  it  is  not  half  so  bad  with  them  as  they  say"  .  .  . 

"I  haven't.  I've  heard  them  squeaking  inside 
public  houses  of  course." 

"Now's  your  chance  then.  Woa  Jemima !  That's 
the  ticket.     Now  she's  off " 

Miriam  waited,  breathless;  eagerly  prepared  to 
accept  the  coming  wonder.  A  sound  like  the  crackling 
of  burning  twigs  came  out  into  the  silence.  She 
remembered  her  first  attempt  to  use  a  telephone,  the 
need  for  concentrating  calmly  through  the  preliminary 
tumult,  on  the  certainty  that  intelligible  sounds  would 
presently  emerge,  and  listened  encouragingly  for  a 
voice.  The  crackling  changed  to  a  metallic  scraping, 
labouring  steadily  round  and  round,  as  if  it  would  go 
on  for  ever;  it  ceased  and  an  angry  stentorian  voice 
seemed  to  be  struggling,  half-smothered,  in  the  neck  of 
the  trumpet.  Miriam  gazed,  startled,  at  the  yawning 
orifice,  as  the  voice  suddenly  escaped  and  leaped  out 
across  the  table  with  a  shout — "EdIson-BELL 
RECord!"  Lightly  struck  chords  tinkled  far  away, 
fairy  music,  sounding  clear  and  distinct  on  empty  space 
remote  from  the  steady  scraping  of  the  machine. 
Then  a  song  began.  The  whole  machine  seemed  to 
sing  it;  vibrating  with  effort,  sending  forth  the  notes 
in  a  jerky  staccato,  the  scarcely  touched  words  clipped 
and  broken  to  fit  the  jingling  tune;  the  sustained  upper 
notes  at  the  end  of  the  verse  wavered  chromatically, 

—116— 


DEADLOCK 

as  if  the  machine  were  using  its  last  efforts  to  reach  the 
true  pitch;  it  ceased  and  the  far  away  chords  came 
again,  fainter  and  further  away.  In  the  second  verse 
the  machine  struggled  more  feebly  and  slackened  its 
speed,  flattened  suddenly  to  a  lower  key,  wavered  on, 
flattening  from  key  to  key  and  collapsed,  choking,  on 
a  single  downward-slurring  squeak 

"Oh,  but  that's  absolutely  perfect!"  sighed  Miriam. 

"You  want  to  set  it  slower,  silly;  it  all  began  too 
high.", 

'7  know,  la  reine,  he  knows,  he'll  set  it  slower  all 
right." 

This  time  the  voice  marched  lugubriously  forth, 
with  a  threatening  emphasis  on  each  word;  the  sus- 
tained notes  blared  wide  through  their  mufflings; 
yawned  out  by  an  angry  lion. 

"My  word"  said  Harriett,  "it's  a  funeral  this 
time." 

"But  it's  glorious!  Can  you  make  it  go  as  slowly 
as  you  like?" 

"We'll  get  it  right  presently,  never  fear." 

Miriam  felt  that  no  correct  performance  could  be 
better  than  what  she  had  heard,  and  listened  care- 
lessly to  the  beginning  of  the  third  performance.  If 
it  succeeded  the  blissful  light  flowing  from  the  room 
out  over  her  distant  world  must  either  be  shattered 
by  her  tacit  repudiation  of  the  cheaply  devised  ditty, 
or  treacherously  preserved  at  the  price  of  simulated 
satisfaction.  The  prelude  sounded  nearer  this  time, 
revealing  a  piano  and  an  accompanist,  and  the  song 
came  steadily  out,  a  pleasant  kindly  baritone,  beating 
along  on  a  middle  key;  a  nice  unimaginative  brown- 
haired  young  man,  who  happened  to  have   a,  voice. 

—117— 


DEADLOCK 

She  ceased  to  attend;  the  bright  breakfast-table,  the 
cheerfully  decorated  square  room  bathed  in  the 
brilliant  morning  light  that  was  flooding  the  upward 
slope  of  the  town  from  the  wide  sky  towering  above 
the  open  sea,  was  suddenly  outside  space  and  time, 
going  on  for  ever  untouched;  the  early  days  flowed 
up,  recovered  completely  from  the  passage  of  time, 
going  forward  with  today  added  to  them,  for  ever. 
The  march  of  the  refrain  came  lilting  across  the  stream 
of  days,  joyfully  beating  out  the  common  recognition 
of  the  three  listeners.  She  restrained  her  desire  to 
take  it  up,  flinging  out  her  will  to  hold  back  the  others, 
that  they  might  face  out  the  moment  and  let  it  make 
its  full  mark.  In  the  next  refrain  they  could  all  take 
the  relief  of  shouting  their  acknowledgement,  a  hymn 
to  the  three-fold  life.  The  last  verse  was  coming 
successfully  through;  in  an  instant  the  chorus  refrain 
would  be  there.  It  was  old  and  familiar,  woven 
securely  into  experience,  beginning  its  life  as  memory. 
She  listened  eagerly.  It  was  partly  too,  she  thought, 
absence  of  singer  and  audience  that  redeemed  both 
the 'music  and  the  words.  It  was  a  song  overheard; 
sounding  out  innocently  across  the  morning.  She  saw 
the  sun  shining  on  the  distant  hill-tops,  the  comrades 
in  line,  and  the  lingering  lover  tearing  himself  away 
for  the  roll-call.  The  refrain  found  her  far  away, 
watching  the  scene  until  the  last  note  should  banish  it. 

The  door  opened  and  Elspeth  stood  in  the  door- 
way. 

''JVeU,  my  pet?"  said  Harriett  and  Gerald  gently, 
together. 

She  trotted  round  the  open  door,  carefully  closing 
it  with  her  body,   her  steady  eyes  taking  in  the  dis- 

—  118— 


DEADLOCK 

position  of  affairs.  In  a  moment  she  stood  near  the 
table,  the  silky  rounded  golden  crown  of  her  head 
rising  just  above  it.  Miriam  thrilled  at  her  nearness, 
delighting  in  the  firm  clutch  of  the  tiny  hand  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  the  gentle  shapely  bulge  of  the 
ends  of  her  hair  inturned  towards  her  neck,  the  little 
busy  bustling  expression  of  her  bunchy  motionless 
little  muslin  dress.  Suddenly  she  looked  up  in  her 
way,  Gerald's  disarming  gentleness,  all  Eve's  reined- 
in  gaiety.  ...  "I  your  baby?"  she  asked  with  a 
small  lunge  of  affection.  Miriam  blushed.  The 
tiny  thing  had  remembered  from  yesterday  .  .  . 
"Yes,"  she  murmured  encircling  her  and  pressing  her 
lips  to  the  warm  silken  top  of  her  head.  Gerald 
burst  into  loud  wailing.  Elspeth  moved  backwards 
towards  Harriett  and  stood  propped  against  her,  con- 
templating him  with  sunny  interest.  Harriett's  firm 
ringed  hand  covered  the  side  of  her  head. 

"Poor  Poppa,"  she  suggested. 

"Be  cn-ut  Gerald!"  Elspeth  cried  serenely,  frowning 
with  effort.  She  stood  on  tip-toe  surveying  the  con- 
tents of  the  table  and  waved  a  peremptory  hand 
towards  the  gramophone.  Gerald  tried  to  make  a 
bargain.  Lifted  on  to  Harriett's  knee  she  bunched 
her  hands  and  sat  compact.  The  direct  rays  made 
her  head  a  little  sunlit  sphere,  smoothly  outlined  with 
silky  pale  gold  hair  bulging  softly  over  each  ear,  the 
broken  curve  continued  by  the  gentle  bulge  of  her 
cheeks  as  she  pursed  her  face  to  meet  the  sunlight. 
She  peered  unsmiling,  but  every  curve  smiled;  a  little 
sunny  face,  sunlit.  Fearing  that  she  would  move, 
Miriam  tried  to  centre  attention  by  seeming  engrossed 
in  Gerald's  operations,   glancing  sideways  meanwhile 

—119— 


DEADLOCK 

in  an  entrancement  of  effort  to  define  In  her  small 
perfection.  The  list  of  single  items  summoned 
images  of  children  who  missed  her  charm  by  some 
accentuation  of  character,  pointing  backwards  to  the 
emphatic  quaUties  of  a  relative  and  forward  so  clearly 
that  already  they  seemed  adult.  Elspeth  predicted 
nothing.  The  closest  observation  revealed  no  point 
of  arrest.  Her  undivided  impression  once  caught, 
could  be  recovered  In  each  separate  feature. 

Eve  came  in  as  the  music  ceased.  In  the  lull  that 
followed  the  general  greetings  Miriam  imagined  a 
repetition  of  the  song,  to  carry  Eve  back  Into  what 
had  gone  before  and  forward  with  them  in  the  un- 
changed morning.  But  Mrs.  Thimm  broke  in  with 
a  tray  and  scattered  them  all  towards  the  fire.  Let's 
hear  Molly  Darling  once  more  she  thought  In  a  casual 
tone.  After  yesterday  Eve  would  take  that  as  a  lack 
of  interest  in  her  presence.  Supposing  she  did?  She 
was  so  changed  that  she  could  be  treated  without  con- 
sideration, as  an  equal  .  .  .  but  she  overdid  It, 
preening  herself,  caring  more  for  the  Idea  of  indepen- 
dence than  for  the  fact.  That  would  not  keep  her 
going.  She  would  not  be  strong  enough  to  sustain 
her  independence.   .   .   . 

The  sense  of  triumph  threw  up  an  effulgence  even 
while  Miriam  accused  herself  of  cruelty  in  contem- 
plating the  droopy  exhaustion  which  had  outlived 
Eve's  day  of  rest.  But  she  was  not  alone  in  this; 
nice  good  people  were  secretly  impatient  with  rela- 
tives who  were  always  threatening  to  break  down 
and  become  problems.  And  Eve  had  almost  ceased 
to  be  a  relative.  Descending  to  the  rank  of  com- 
petitor  she   was   no   longer   a   superior  .   .  .   she  was 

— 120 — 


DEADLOCK 

an  Inferior  masquerading  as  an  equal  .  .  .  that  was 
what  men  meant  in  the  newspapers.  Then  it  couldn't 
be  true.  There  was  some  other  explanation.  It  was 
because  she  was  using  her  independence  as  a  revenge 
for  the  past.  .  .  .  What  men  resented  was  the  sudden 
reflection  of  their  detachment  by  women  who  had 
for  themselves  discovered  its  secret,  and  knew  what 
uncertainties  went  on  behind  it.  She  was  resenting 
Eve's  independence  as  a  man  would  do.  Eve  was 
saying  she  now  understood  the  things  that  in  the  past 
she  had  only  admired,  and  that  they  were  not  so  ad- 
mirable, and  quite  easy  to  do.  But  she  disgraced 
the  discovery  by  flaunting  it.  It  was  so  evident  that 
it  was  her  shop,  not  she  that  had  come  into  the  room 
and  spoiled  the  morning.  Even  now  she  was  dwelling 
on  next  week.  Inside  her  mind  was  nothing  but  her 
customers,  travellers,  the  possible  profits,  her  many 
plans  for  improvement.  Nothing  else  could  impress 
her.  Anything  she  contributed  would  rest  more 
than  ever,  now  that  Christmas  Day  was  over,  upon 
a  back-ground  of  absent-minded  complacency.  Like 
herself,  with  the  Brooms?  Was  it  she  who  was  being 
judged  and  not  Eve?  No,  or  only  by  herself. 
Harriett  shared  her  new  impressions  of  Eve,  saw 
how  eagerly  in  her  clutch  on  her  new  interests  she 
had  renounced  her  old  background  of  inexhaustible 
sympathy.  Gerald  did  not.  But  men  have  no  sense 
of  atmosphere.  They  only  see  the  appearances  of 
things,  understanding  nothing  of  their  relationships. 
Bewilderment,  pessimistic  philosophies,  regretful 
poetry.   .   .   . 

The    song   might   banish    Eve's    self-assertion    and 
bring  back  something  of  her  old  reality.     Music,  any 

— 121 — 


DEADLOCK 

music,  would  always  make  Eve  real.  Perhaps  Elspeth 
would  ask  for  It.  But  in  the  long  inactive  seconds, 
things  had  rushed  ahead  shattering  the  sunHt  hour. 
Nothing  could  make  it  settle  again.  Eve  had  missed 
it  for  ever.  But  she  had  discovered  its  presence. 
Its  broken  vestiges  played  about  her  retreat  as  she 
turned  away  to  Elspeth;  Gerald  who  alone  was  un- 
conscious of  her  discovery,  having  himself  been 
spell-bound  without  recognizing  his  whereabouts, 
was  inaccessibly  filling  his  pipe.  She  was  far-off 
now,  trying  to  break  her  way  in  by  an  attack  on 
Elspeth.  Miriam  watched  anxiously,  reading  the 
quahty  of  their  daily  intercourse.  Elspeth  was  re- 
sponding with  little  imitative  movements,  arch  smiles 
and  gestures.  Miriam  writhed.  Eve  would  teach 
her  to  see  life  as  people,  a  few  prominent  over-em- 
phasized people  in  a  fixed  world.  .  .  .  But  Elspeth 
soon  broke  away  to  trot  up  and  down  the  hearth-rug, 
and  when  Gerald  caught  and  held  her,  asking  as  he 
puffed  at  his  pipe  above  her  head  a  rallying  question 
about  the  shop,  she  stood  propped  looking  from  face 
to  face,  testing  voices. 

The  morning  had  changed  to  daytime.  .  .  .  Gerald 
and  Eve  made  busy  needless  statements,  going  over 
in  the  form  of  question  and  answer  the  history  of  the 
shop,  and  things  that  had  been  obviously  already  dis- 
cussed to  exhaustion.  Across  Harriett's  face  thoughts 
about  Eve  and  her  venture  passed  in  swift  comment 
on  the  conversation.  Now  and  again  she  betrayed 
her  impatience,  leaping  out  into  abrupt  ironic  emen- 
dations and  presently  rose  with  a  gasp,  thumping 
Miriam  gently,  "Come  on,  you've  got  to  try  on  that 
blouse."      The    colloquy    snapped.      Eve     turned    a 

— 122 — 


DEADLOCK 

flushed  face  and  sat  back  looking  uneasily  into  vacancy 
as  if  for  something  she  had  forgotten  to  say. 

"Try  it  on  down  here,"  said  Gerald. 

"Don't  be  idiotic." 

"It's  all  right.     We  shan't  mind.     We  won't  look 
till  she's  got  it  on." 

"If  you  look  then,  you  will  be  dazzled  by  my 
radiance."  Miriam  stood  listening  in  astonishment 
to  the  echoes  of  the  phrase,  fashioned  from  nothing 
upon  her  lips  by  something  within  her,  unknown, 
wildly  to  be  welcomed  if  its  power  of  using  words 
that  left  her  not  merely  untouched  and  unspent,  but 
taut  and  invigorated,  should  prove  to  be  reliable. 
She  watched  the  words  go  forward  outside  her  with 
a  life  of  their  own,  palpable,  a  golden  thread  between 
herself  and  the  world,  the  first  strand  of  a  bright 
pattern  she  and  Gerald  would  weave  from  their  sep- 
arate engrossments  whenever  their  lives  should  cross. 
Through  Gerald's  bantering  acknowledgment  she 
gazed  out  before  her  into  the  future,  an  endless  per- 
spective of  blissful  unbroken  silence,  shielded  by  the 
gift  of  speech.  .  .  .  The  figure  of  Eve,  sitting 
averted  towards  the  fire,  flung  her  back.  To  Eve  her 
words  were  not  silence;  but  a  blow  deliberately  struck. 
With  a  thrill  of  sadness  she  recognized  the  creative 
power  of  anger.  If  she  had  not  been  angry  with 
Eve  she  would  have  wondered  whether  Gerald  were 
secretly  amused  by  her  continued  interest  in  blouses, 
and  have  fallen  stupidly  dumb  before  the  need  of 
explaining,  as  her  mind  now  rapidly  proceeded  to  do, 
cancelling  her  sally  as  a  base  foreign  achievement, 
that  her  Interest  was  only  a  passing  part  of  holiday 
relaxation,  to  be  obliterated  tomorrow  by  the  renewal 

—123— 


DEADLOCK 

of  a  life  that  held  everything  he  thought  she  was 
missing,  in  a  way  and  with  a  quality  new  and  rich 
beyond  anything  he  could  dream,  and  contemplating 
these  things,  would  have  silently  left  him  with  his 
judgment  confirmed.  She  had  moved  before  Gerald, 
safely  ensphered  in  the  life  of  words,  and  in  the  same 
movement  was  departing  now,  on  the  wings  of 
Harriett's  rush,  a  fiend  denying  her  kindred. 

Running  upstairs  she  reflected  that  if  the  finished 
blouse  suited  her  it  was  upon  Eve  that  it  would  most 
powerfully  cast  its  spell.  The  shoulders  had  been 
good.  Defects  in  the  other  parts  could  not ,  spoil 
them,  and  the  squareness  of  her  shoulders  was  an 
odd  thing  for  which  she  was  not  responsible.  Eve 
only  admired  them  because  hers  sloped.  She  would 
come  down  again  as  the  gay  buffoon  Eve  used  to 
know,  letting  the  effect  of  the  blouse  be  incidental, 
making  today  today,  shaking  them  all  out  of  the 
contemplation  of  circumstances.  She  would  give 
some  of  her  old  speeches  and  musical  sketches,  if  she 
could  manage  to  begin  when  Gerald  was  not  there, 
and  Eve  would  laugh  till  she  cried.  No  one  would 
guess  that  she  was  buoyed  up  by  her  own  invisible 
circumstances,  forgotten  as  she  browsed  amongst 
new  impressions,  and  now  returning  upon  her  moment 
by  moment  with  accumulated  force.  But  upstairs, 
confronted  by  Harriett  in  the  summerlit  seaside  sun- 
shine, she  found  the  past  half-hour  between  them, 
pressing  for  comment,  and  they  danced  silently  con- 
fronting each  other,  dajicing  and  dancing  till  they  had 
said  their  say. 

The  visit  ended  in  the  stillness  that  fell  upon  the 
empty  carriage   as  the  train  left  the  last  red-roofed 

— 124 — 


DEADLOCK 

houses  behind   and   slid   out   into   the    open   country. 
She    swung   for   an   instant   over   the   spread   of   the 
town,    serene    unchanging    sunlit   grey,    and    brilliant 
white,    green   shuttered    and  balconied,    towards  the 
sea,    warm    yellow    brick,    red-roofed,    towards    the 
inland  green,   her  visit  still  ahead  of  her.     But  the 
interiors   of   Eve's   dark   little    house   and  Harriett's 
bright  one  slipped  in  between  her  and  the  pictured 
town,    and    the    four    days'    succession    of    incidents 
overtook    her    in    disorder,    playing    themselves    out, 
backwards  and  forwards,  singly,   in  clear  succession, 
two  or  three  together,  related  to  each  other  by  some 
continuity  of  mood  within  herself,  pell  mell,  swiftly 
interchanging,   each   scene  in  turn  claiming  the   fore- 
most   place;    moments    stood    out    dark    and    over- 
shadowing; the  light   that  flooded  the  whole   strove 
in  vain  to  reach  these  painful  peaks.     The  far-away 
spring  offered  a  healing  repetition  of  her  visit;  but 
the     moments     remained     immovable.     Eve     would 
still  be  obstinately  saying  the  Baws  and  really  think- 
ing she  knew  which  side  she  was  on  .   .   .  Wawkup 
and  Poole  Carey  .   .   .   those  were  quotations  as  cer- 
tainly   as    were    Eve's    newspaper    ideas;    Wimpole 
Street    quotations.     The    thing    was    that    Eve    had 
learned  to  want  to  be  always  in  the  right  and  was 
not  swift  enough  in  gathering  things  ....  not  worldly 
enough.     The  train  was  rocking  and  swaying  in  its 
rush  towards  its  first  stop.     After  that  the  journey 
would  seem  only  a   few  minutes,   time  passing  more 
and  more  rapidly,  filled  with  the  pressure  of  London 
coming  nearer  and  nearer.     But  the  junction  was  still 
a  good  way  off. 

"No.      It's    nothing    of    that    kind.     All    Russian 
—125— 


DEADLOCK 

students  are  like  that.  They  have  everything  in 
common.  On  the  inside  of  the  paper  he  had 
written  it  will  be  unfriendly  if  it  should  occur  to 
you  to  feel  any  sentiment  of  resentment.  What 
could  I  do?  Oh  yes  they*  would.  A  Russian  would 
think  nothing  of  spending  two  pounds  on  chocolate 
if  he  wanted  to.  They  live  on  bread  too,  nothing 
but  bread  and  tea,  some  of  them,  for  the  sake  of 
being  able  to  work.  What  I  can't  make  him  see  is 
that  although  I  am  earning  my  living  and  he  is  not, 
he  is  preparing  to  earn  a  much  more  solid  living 
than  I  ever  shall.  He  says  he  is  ashamed  to  be  doing 
nothing  while  I  am  already  independent.  The  next 
moment  he  is  indignant  that  I  have  not  enough  for 
clothes  and  food;  I  have  to  be  absolutely  rude  to 
make  him  let  me  pay  for  myself  at  restaurants. 
When  I  say  it  is  worth  it  and  I  have  enough,  much 
more  than  thousands  of  women  workers,  he  is  silent 
with  indignation.  Then  when  I  say  that  what  is 
really  wrong  is  that  I  have  been  cheated  of  my  student 
period  and  ought  to  be  living  on  somebody  as  a  stu- 
dent, he  says,  'Pairhaps,  but  you  are  in  life,  that  is 
the  more  important.' 

"All  right,  I  will  ask  him.  Poor  little  man.  He 
has  spent  his  Christmas  at  Tansley  Street.  He  would 
adore  Elspeth;  although  she  is  not  a  'beef-steak.' 
He  says  there  are  no  children  in  Europe  finer  than 
English  children,  and  will  stop  suddenly  in  the  middle 
of  a  serious  conversation  to  say,  'Look,  look;  but  that 
is  a  real  English  beef-steak.'  " 

Harry  had  partly  understood.      But  she  still  clung 
to  her  private  thoughts.      Meeting  him  today  would 

— 126 — 


DEADLOCK 

not  be  quite  the  same  as  before  she  had  mentioned 
him  to  any  one.  Summoning  his  familiar  form  she 
felt  that  her  talk  had  been  treachery.  Yet  not  to 
have  mentioned  him  at  all  felt  like  treachery  too. 

"There's  quite  an  interesting  Russian  at  Tansley 
Street  now."  That  meant  simply  nothing  at  all.  .  .  . 
Christmas  had  been  an  interruption.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
something  would  have  happened  in  his  first  days  of 
London  without  her.  Perhaps  he  would  not  appear 
this  evening. 

Back  at  her  work  at  Wimpole  Street  she  forgot 
everything  in  a  sudden  glad  realization  of  the  turn 
of  the  year.  The  sky  was  bright  above  the  grey  wall 
opposite  her  window.  Soon  there  would  be  bright 
light  in  it  at  five  o'clock,  daylight  remaining  to  walk 
home  in,  then  at  six,  and  she  would  see  once  more 
for  another  year  the  light  of  the  sun  on  the  green 
of  the  park.  The  alley  of  crocuses  would  come 
again,  then  daffodils  in  the  grass  and  the  green  of 
the  on-coming  blue-bells.  Her  table  was  littered 
with  newly  paid  accounts,  enough  to  occupy  her  pen 
for  the  short  afternoon  with  pleasant  writing,  the 
reward  of  the  late  evenings  spent  before  Christmas 
in  hurrying  out  overdue  statements,  and  the  easy 
prelude  to  next  week's  crowded  work  on  the  yearly 
balance  sheets.  She  sat  stamping  and  signing,  and 
writing  picturesque  addresses,  her  eyes  dwelling  all 
the  while  in  contemplation  of  the  gift  of  the  out- 
spread year.  The  patients  were  few  and  no  calls 
came  from  the  surgeries.  Tea  came  up  while  she 
still  felt  newly-arrived  from  the  outside  world,  and 
the  outspread  scenes  in  her  mind  were  gleaming  still 

—127— 


DEADLOCK 

with  fresh  high  colour  in  bright  light,  but  the  last 
receipt  was  signed,  and  a  pile  of  envelopes  lay  ready 
for  the  post. 

She  welcomed  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Orly's  voice, 
tired  and  animated  at  the  front  door,  and  rose 
gladly  as  she  came  into  the  room  with  little  bright 
brolcen  incoherent  phrases,  and  the  bright  deep 
unwearied  dauntless  look  of  welcome  in  her  little 
tired  face.  She  was  swept  into  the  den  and  kept 
there  for  a  prolonged  tea-time,  being  questioned  in 
detail  about  her  Christmas  in  Eve's  shop,  seeing 
Mrs.  Orly's  Christmas  presents  and  presently 
moving  in  and  out  of  groups  of  people  she  knew 
only  by  name.  An  extraordinary  number  of  disasters 
had  happened  amongst  them.  She  listened  without 
surprise.  Always  all  the  year  round'  these  people 
seemed  to  live  under  the  shadow  of  impending  troubles. 
But  Mrs.  Orly's  dolorous  list  made  Christmas  seem 
to  be,  for  them,  a  time  devoted  to  the  happening 
of  things  that  crashed  down  in  their  midst,  dealing 
out  life-long  results.  Mrs.  Orly  talked  rapidly,  sat- 
isfied with  gestures  of  sympathy,  but  Miriam  was 
conscious  that  her  sympathy  was  not  falling  where 
it  was  demanded.  She  watched  the  family  centres 
unmoved,  her  mind  hovering  over  their  imagined 
houses,  looking  regretfully  at  the  shattered  whole, 
the  views  from  their  windows  that  belonged  to  the 
past  and  were  suddenly  strange  as  when  they  had 
first  seen  them;  passing  on  to  their  servants  and  friends 
and  outwards  into  their  social  life,  following  results  as 
far  as  she  could,  the  principal  sufferers  impressing 
her  all  the  time  in  the  likeness  of  people  who  suddenly 
make   avoidable  disturbances  in  the  midst  of  a  con- 

—128— 


DEADLOCK 

versation.  Driven  back,  from  the  vast  questioning 
silence  at  the  end  of  her  outward  journey,  to  the 
centres  of  Mrs.  Orly's  pictures,  she  tried  to  dwell 
sympathetically  with  the  stricken  people  and  fled 
aghast  before  their  inexorable  circumstances.  They 
were  all  so  hemmed  in,  so  closely  grouped  that  they 
had  no  free  edges,  and  were  completely,  publicly  at 
the  mercy  of  the  things  that  happened.  Every  one 
in  social  life  was  aware  of  this.  Experienced  people 
said  "there  is  always  something,"  "a  skeleton  in  every 
cupboard."  .  .  .  But  why  did  people  get  into  cup- 
boards? Something  or  someone  was  to  blame.  In 
some  way  that  pressed  through  the  picture  now  in 
one  form  and  now  in  another,  just  eluding  expression 
in  any  single  statement  she  could  frame,  these  bright- 
looking  lives,  free  of  all  that  civilization  had  to  offer, 
were  all  to  blame;  all  facing  the  same  way,  unaware 
of  anything  but  the  life  they  lived  among  themselves, 
they  made  the  shadow  that  hung  over  them  all;  they 
invited  its  sudden  descents.  .  .  .  She  felt  that  her 
thoughts  were  cruel ;  like  an  unprovoked  blow,  worthy 
of  instant  revenge  by  some  invisible  observant  third 
party;  but  even  while  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Orly's 
sympathy  she  accused  herself  of  heartlessness  and 
strove  to  retreat  into  a  kindlier  outlook,  she  was  aware, 
moving  within  her  conviction,  of  some  dim  shape  of 
truth  that  no  sympathy  could  veil. 

At  six  o'clock  the  front  door  closed  behind  her, 
shutting  her  out  into  the  multitudinous  pattering  of 
heavy  rain.  With  the  sight  of  the  familiar  street 
shortened  by  darkness  to  a  span  lit  faintly  by  dull 
rain-shrouded  lamps,  her  years  of  daily  setting  forth 
into  London    came  about  her  more  clearly  than  ever 

— 129 — 


DEADLOCK 

before  as  a  single  unbroken  achievement.  Jubilantly 
she  reasserted,  facing  the  invitation  flowing  towards 
her  from  single  neighbourhoods  standing  complete 
and  independent,  in  inexhaustibly  various  loveliness 
through  the  procession  of  night  and  day,  linked  by 
streets  and  by-ways,  living  in  her  as  mood  and  reverie, 
that  to  have  the  freedom  of  London  was  a  life  in  itself. 
Incidents  from  Mrs.  Orly's  conversation  pressing  for- 
ward through  her  outcry,  heightened  her  sense  of 
freedom.  If  the  sufferers  were  her  own  kindred,  if 
disaster  threatened  herself,  walking  in  London,  she 
would  pass  into  that  strange  familiar  state,  where  all 
clamourings  seemed  unreal  and  on  in  the  end  into 
complete  forgetfulness. 

Two  scenes  flashed  forth  from  the  panorama 
beyond  the  darkness  and  while  she  glanced  at  the 
vagrants  stretched  asleep  on  the  grass  in  the  Hyde 
Park  summer,  carefully  to  be  skirted  and  yet  most 
dreadfully  claiming  her  companionship,  she  saw, 
narrow  and  gaslit,  the  little  unlocated  street  that 
had  haunted  her  first  London  years,  herself  flitting 
into  it,  always  unknowingly,  from  a  maze  of  sur- 
rounding streets,  feeling  uneasy,  recognizing  it, 
hurrying  to  pass  its  awful  centre  where  she  must 
read  the  name  of  a  shop,  and,  dropped  helplessly 
into  the  deepest  pit  of  her  memory,  struggle  on 
through  thronging  images  threatening,  each  time 
more  powerfully,  to  draw  her  willingly  back  and  back 
through  the  intervening  spaces  of  her  life  to  some 
deserved  destruction  of  mind  and  body,  until  presently 
she  emerged  faint  and  quivering,  in  a  wide  careless 
thoroughfare.  She  had  forgotten  it;  perhaps  some- 
how learned  to  avoid  it.     Her  imagined  figure  passed 

—130— 


DEADLOCK 

from  the  haunted  scene,  and  from  the  vast  spread 
of  London  the  tide  flowed  through  it,  leaving  it  a 
daylit  part  of  the  whole,  its  spell  broken  and  gone. 
She  struggled  with  her  stifily  opening  umbrella, 
listening  joyfully  to  the  sound  of  the  London  rain. 
She  asked  nothing  of  life  but  to  stay  where  she  was, 
to  go  on.  .  .  .  London  was  her  pillar  of  cloud  and 
fire,  undeserved,  but  unsolicited,  life's  free  gift.  In 
still  exultation  she  heard  her  footsteps  go  down  into 
the  street  and  along  the  strearriing  pavement.  The 
light  from  a  lamp  just  ahead  fell  upon  a  figure,  plung- 
ing in  a  swift  diagonal  across  the  muddy  roadway 
towards  her.  He  had  come  to  meet  her  ...  in- 
vading her  street.  She  fled  exasperated,  as  she 
slackened  her  pace,  before  this  postponement  of  her 
meeting  with  London,  and  silently  drove  him  off,  as 
he  swept  round  to  walk  at  her  side,  asking  him  how 
he  dared  unpermitted  to  bring  himself,  and  the  evening, 
and  the  evening  mood,  across  her  inviolable  hour. 
His  overcoat  was  grey  with  rain  and  as  she  glanced 
he  was  scanning  her  silence  with  that  slight  quiver- 
ing of  his  features.  Poor  brave  little  lonely  man. 
He  had  spent  his  Christmas  at  Tansley  Street. 

"Well?  How  was  it?"  he  said.  He  was  a  gaoler, 
shutting  her  in. 

"Oh  it  was  all  right." 

"Your  sisters  are  well?  Ah  I  must  tell  you,"  his 
voice  boomed  confidently  ahead  into  the  darkness; 
"while   I  waited  I  have   seen  two  of  your  doctors." 

"They  are  not  doctors." 

"I  had  an  immensely  good  impression.  I  find 
them  both  most  fine  English  types." 

"Hm;  they're  absolutely  English."  She  saw  them 
—131— 


DEADLOCK 

coming  out,  singly,  preoccupied,  into  their  street. 
English.  He  standing  under  his  lamp,  a  ramshackle 
foreigner  whom  they  might  have  regarded  with  sus- 
picion, taking  them  in  with  a  flash  of  his  prepared 
experienced  brown  eye. 

"Abso-lutully.  This  unmistakable  expression  of 
humanity  and  fine  sympathetic  intelligence.  Ah,  it  is 
fine." 

"I  know.  But  they  have  very  simple  minds,  they 
quote  their  opinions." 

"I  do  not  say  that  you  will  find  in  the  best  English 
types  a  striking  originality  of  mentality,"  he  exclaimed 
reproachfully.  Her  attention  pounced  unwillingly 
upon  the  promised  explanation  of  her  own  impressions, 
tired  in  advance  at  the  prospect  of  travelling  through 
his  carefully  pronounced  sentences  while  the  world 
she  had  come  out  to  meet  lay  disregarded  all  about 
her.  "But  you  will  find  what  is  perhaps  more  im- 
portant, the  characteristic  features  of  your  English 
civilization." 

"I  know.  I  can  see  that;  because  I  am  neither 
English  nor  civilized." 

"That  is  a  nonsense.  You  are  most  English.  No, 
but  it  is  really  most  wonderful,"  his  voice  dropped 
again  to  reverence  and  she  listened  eagerly,  "how  in 
your  best  aristocracy  and  in  the  best  types  of  pro- 
fessional men,  your  lawyers  and  clerics  and  men  of 
science,  is  to  be  read  so  strikingly  this  history  of  your 
nation.  There  is  a  something  common  to  them  all 
that  shines  out,  diirchleiichtend,  showing,  sometimes, 
understand  me,  with  almost  a  naivety,  the  centuries 
of  your  freedom.  Ah  it  is  not  for  nothing  that  the 
word  gentleman  comes  from  England." 

—132— 


DEADLOCK 

"I  know,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Miriam  in 
contemplation,  they  were  naive;  showing  their 
thoughts,  in  sets,  readable,  with  shapes  and  edges, 
but  it  was  the  Tories  and  clerics  who  had  the  roomiest, 
most  sympathetic  expressions,  liberals  and  noncon- 
formists had  no  thoughts  at  all,  only  ideas.  Lawyers 
had  no  ideas  even  .  .   . 

"You  would  like  my  father;  he  hasn't  a  scrap  of 
originality,  only  that  funny  old-fashioned  English 
quality  from  somewhere  or  other  Heaven  knows," 
.  .  .  and  they  could  play  chess  together!  .  .  .  "But 
lawyers  are  not  gentlemen.  They  are  perfectly 
awful." 

"That  is  a  prejudice.  Your  English  law  is  the  very 
basis  of  your  English  freedom." 

"They  are  awful.  The  others  look  Christians. 
They  don't."     Fancy  defending  Christianity  .   .   . 

"The  thing  you  are  seeing,"  she  said,  is  Chris- 
tianity. I  don't  mean  that  there  is  anything  in  it; 
but  Christian  ideas  have  made  English  civilization; 
that's  what  it  is.  But  how  can  you  say  all  these  things 
when  you  believe  we  are  grabbing  diamond  mines?" 
Haw,  what?  Champagne  and  Grand  pianos.  Nice, 
jolly  prejudiced  simpletons;  not  even  able  to  imagine 
that  England  ought  not  to  have  everything  there  was 
to  be  had,  everywhere.  Quite  right,  better  for  every- 
body .  .  .  but  .  .  .  wir  reiten,  Pieter,  reiten  .  .  . 
oh  Lord   .   .   .   who  was  right? 

"Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit.  Christianity  will  not 
explain.  There  are  other  Christian  countries  where 
there  is  no  sign  of  this  thing  that  is  in  England. 
No.  The  explanation  is  very  simple.  It  is  that 
you  have  had  in  England  through  a  variety  of  causes, 

—  133— 


DEADLOCK 

not  the  least  of  which  is  your  Protestant  Reformation, 
a  relatively  very  rapid  and  unrestricted  secular  de- 
velopment." 

"What  about  Germany  and  Holland?" 
"Both     quite     different     stories.      There     was     in 
England  a  specially  favourable  gathering  of  circum- 
stances  for  rapid  secularistic  development." 

"Then  if  we  have  been  made  by  our  circumstances 
it  is  no  credit  to  us." 

"I  have  not  said  anything  about  credit.'' 
"But  there  are  people  now  who  think  we  are  dying 
of  the  Reformation;  not  the  break  with  Rome;  but 
with  Catholic  history  and  tradition.  No,  wait  a 
minute,  it's  interesting.  They  have  discovered, 
proved,  that  there  was  Christianity  in  Britain,  and 
British  Christian  Churches,  long  before  the  Romans 
came.  That  means  that  we  are  as  old,  and  as  direct 
as  Rome.  The  Pope  is  nothing  but  a  Roman  Bishop. 
I  feel  it  is  an  immense  relief,  to  know  we  go  right 
back,  ourselves;  when  I  think  of  it." 

"All  these  clericalisms  are  immaterial  to  life." 
"Then  there  were  two  Popes  at  one  time,  and  there 
is  the  Greek  church.  I  wonder  Newman  didn't  think 
of  that.  Now  he  is  one  of  your  fine  English  types, 
although  he  looks  scared,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 
If  he  had  known  about  the  early  British  church  perhaps 
he  would  not  have  gone  over  to  Rome." 

"I  cannot  follow  all  this.  But  what  is  indisputable 
is,  that  in  every  case  of  religious  authority,  secular 
development  has  been  held  back.  Buckle  has  com- 
pletely demonstrated  this  in  a  most  masterly  exhaustive 
consideration  of  the  civilizations  of  Europe.  Ah  it 
is  marveUoiis,  this  book,  one  of  your  finest  decorations; 

—134— 


DEADLOCK 

and  without  any  smallest  touch  of  fanaticism;  he  is 
indeed  perhaps  one  of  your  greatest  minds  of  the  best 
English  type,  full  of  sensibility  and  fine  gentleness." 

Miriam  was  back,  as  she  listened,  in  the  Chiswick 
villa,  in  bed  in  the  yellow  lamp-light  with  a  cold, 
the  pages  of  the  Apologia  reading  themselves  with- 
out effort  into  her  molten  mind,  as  untroubled  beauty 
and  happiness,  making  what  Newman  sought  seem 
to  be  at  home  in  herself,  revealing  deep  inside  life 
a  whole  new  strange  place  of  existence  that  was  yet 
familiar,  so  that  the  gradual  awful  gathering  of  his 
trouble  was  a  personal  experience,  and  the  moment 
of  conviction  that  schism  was  a  deliberate  death,  a 
personal  conviction.  She  wondered  why  she  always 
forgot  that  the  problem  had  been  solved.  Glancing 
beyond  the  curve  of  her  umbrella  she  caught,  with 
his  last  words,  the  sudden  confident  grateful  shining 
of  Mr.  Shatov's  lifted  face  and  listened  eagerly. 

"It  is  this  one  thing,"  she  lifted  the  umbrella  his 
way  in  sudden  contrition,  shifting  it  so  that  it  sheltered 
neither  of  them;  "Thank  you,  I  am  quite  well.  It 
is  hardly  now  raining,"  he  muttered  at  his  utmost 
distance  of  foreign  intonation  and  bearing.  She 
peered  out  into  the  air,  shutting  her  umbrella.  They 
had  come  out  of  their  way,  away  from  the  streets  into 
a  quietness.  It  must  be  the  Inner  Circle.  They 
would  have  to  walk  right  round  it. 

"It  is  this  one  thing,"  again  it  was  as  if  her  own 
voice  were  speaking,  "this  thesis  of  the  conditions 
of  the  development  of  peoples,"  Anglican  priests 
married;  but  not  the  highest  high-Anglican.  But 
they  were  always  going  over  to  Rome  .  .  .  "that 
had  made  your  Buckle   so   precious  to   the   Russian 

—135— 


DEADLOCK 

intelligentsia.  In  England  he  is  scarcely  now  read, 
though  I  have  seen  by  the  way  his  works  in  this 
splendid  little  edition  of  World  Classics,  the  same 
as  your  Emerson,  why  did  you  take  only  Emerson? 
There  is  a  whole  row,  the  most  fascinating  things." 

"My  Emerson  was  given  to  me.  I  didn't  know 
it  came  from  anywhere  in  particular." 

"This  Richards  must  be  a  most  enlightened  pub- 
lisher. I  should  wish  to  possess  all  those  volumes. 
The  Buckle  I  will  certainly  take  at  once  and  you 
shall  see.  He  is  of  course  out  of  date  in  the  matter 
of  exact  science  and  this  is  no  doubt  part  reason  why 
in  England  he  is  no  more  read.  It  is  a  great  pity. 
His  mind  is  perhaps  greater  than  even  your  Darwin, 
certainly  with  a  far  wider  philosophical  range,  and 
of  far  greater  originality.  What  is  wonderful  is  his 
actual  anticipation,  in  idea,  without  researches,  of  a 
large  part  of  what  Darwin  discovered  more  acci- 
dentally, as  a  result  of  his  immense  naturalistic 
researches." 

"Some  one  will  discover  some  day  that  Darwin's 
conclusions  were  wrong,  that  he  left  out  some  little 
near  obvious  thing  with  big  results,  and  his  theory, 
which  has  worried  thousands  of  people  nearly  to  death, 
will  turn  out  to  be  one  of  those  everlasting  mannish 
explanations  of  everything  which  explain  nothing.  I 
know  what  you  are  going  to  say;  a  subsequent  reversal 
of  a  doctrine  does  not  invalidate  scientific  method. 
I  know.  But  these  everlasting  theories,  and  men  are 
so  'eminent'  and  Important  about  them,  are  appalling; 
In  medicine,  It  Is  simply  appalling,  and  people  are 
just  as  111  as  ever;  and  when  they  know  Darwin  was 
mistaken,   there  will  be  an  end  of  Herbert  Spencer. 

—  136— 


DEADLOCK 

There's  my  father,  really  an  intelligent  man,  he  has 
done  scientific  research  himself  and  knew  Faraday, 
and  he  thinks  First  Principles  the  greatest  book  that 
was  ever  written.  I  have  argued  and  argued  but  he 
says  he  is  too  old  to  change  his  cosmos.  It  makes 
me  simply  ill  to  think  of  him  living  in  a  cosmos  made 
by  Herbert  Spencer." 

"Wait.  Excuse  me  but  that  is  all  too  easy.  In 
matter  of  science  the  conclusions  of  Darwin  will  never 
be  displaced.  It  is  as  the  alphabet  of  biology,  as 
Galilei  is  of  Astronomy.  More.  These  researches 
even  need  not  be  made  again.  They  are  for  all  time 
verified.  Herbert  Spencer  I  agree  has  carried  too  far 
in  too  wholesale  a  manner  conclusions  based  on 
Darwin's  discoveries;  conclusions  may  lead  to  many 
inapplicable  theories,  that  is  immaterial;  but  Darwin 
himself  made  no  such  theories.  There  is  no  question 
of  opinion  as  to  his  discoveries;  he  supplies  simply 
unanswerable  facts. 

"I  think  it's  Huxley  who  makes  me  angry  with 
Darwinism.  He  didn't  find  it  out,  and  he  went 
swaggering  about  using  it  as  a  weapon;  frightfully 
conceited  about  it.  That  Thomas  Henry  Huxley 
should  come  of?  best  in  an  argument  was  quite  as 
important  to  him  as  spreading  the  Darwinian  theory. 
I  never  read  anything  like  his  accounts  of  his  victories 
in  his  letters." 

"That  is  most  certainly  not  the  spirit  of  Darwin, 
who  was  a  most  gentle  creature.  .  .  ,  But  you  really 
surprise  me  in  your  attitude  towards  the  profession 
of  law." 

"I  don't  know  anything  whatever  about  laws;  but 
I  have  met  lawyers,  barristers  and  solicitors,   and  I 

—137— 


DEADLOCK 

think  they  are  the  most  ignorant,  pig-headed  people 
in  the  world.  They  have  no  minds  at  all.  They 
don't  affect  me.  But  if  I  were  ever  before  a  judge 
I  should  shoot  him.  They  use  cases  to  show  off  their 
silly  wit,  sitting  thinking  of  puns;  and  people  are 
put  to  death." 

"You  are  in  this  matter  both  prejudiced  and  unjust, 
believe  me.  You  cannot  in  any  case  make  individuals 
responsible  in  this  matter  of  capital  punishment. 
That  is  for  all  humanity.  I  see  you  are  like  myself, 
a  dreamer.  But  it  is  bad  to  let  what  might  be,  blind 
you  to  actuality.  To  the  great  actuality,  in  this  case, 
that  in  matters  of  justice  between  man  and  man 
England  has  certainly  led  the  civilized  world.  In 
France,  it  is  true,  there  is  a  certain  special  generosity 
towards  certain  types  of  provoked  crime;  but  France 
has  not  the  large  responsibilities  of  England.  The 
idea  of  abstract  justice,  is  stronger  in  England  than 
anywhere.  But  what  you  do  not  see  is  that  in  con- 
fessing ignorance  of  your  law  you  pay  it  the  highest 
possible  tribute.  You  do  not  know  what  individual 
liberty  is  because  you  know  nothing  of  any  other 
condition.  Ah  you  cannot  conceive  what  strangeness 
and  wonder  there  is  for  a  Russian  in  this  spectacle 
of  a  people  so  free  that  they  hold  their  freedom  as 
a  matter  of  course." 

Decked.  Distingu'i^ed.  Marked  among  the 
nations,  for  unconscious  qualities.  What  is  England? 
What  do  the  qualities  mean? 

"I'm  not  interested  in  laws.  If  I  knew  what  they 
were  I  should  like  to  break  them.  Trespassers  will 
be  prosecuted  always  makes  me  furious." 

"That  Is  merely  a  technical  by-law.  That  is  just 
—138— 


DEADLOCK 

one  of  your  funny  English  high-churchishnesses  this 
trespassers  ...  ah  I  must  tell  you  I  was  just  now 
in  the  Hyde  Park.  There  was  a  meeting,  ah  it  was 
indeed  wonderful  to  me  all  these  people  freely  gathered 
together!  There  was  some  man  addressing  them, 
I  could  not  hear,  but  suddenly  a  man  near  me  on 
the  outskirt  of  the  crowd  shouted  in  full  voice, 
"Chamberlain  is  a  damned  liar!"  Yes,  but  wait  for 
your  English  laughter.  That  is  not  the  whole. 
There  was  also  quite  near  me,  a  very  big  John  Bull 
bobby.  He  turned  to  pass  on,  with  a  smile.  Ah  that 
indeed  for  a  Russian  was  a  most  wonderful  spectacle." 

"We  ought  to  be  hurrying,"  said  Miriam,  burning 
with  helpless  pity  and  indignation,  "you  will  be  late 
for  dinner." 

"That  is  true.  Shall  you  not  also  take  dinner? 
Or  if  you  prefer  we  can  dine  elsewhere.  The  air  is 
most  pure  and  lovely.     We  are  in  some  Park?" 

"Regent's  Park,"  she  said  hastily,  breathing  in  its 
whole  circumference,  her  eyes  passing,  through  the 
misty  gloom,  amongst  daylit  pictures  of  every  part. 
He  had  not  known  even  where  he  was;  completely 
foreign,  a  mind  from  an  unknown  world,  obliviously 
at  her  side.  A  headlong  urgency  possessed  her;  the 
coming  back  to  London  had  not  yet  been;  perhaps 
this  time  she  would  miss  it;  already  she  was  tired 
with  thought  and  speech.  Incoherently  improvising 
an  appointment  she  hurried  along,  her  mind  set 
excitedly  towards  Tansley  Street.  There  was  always 
some  new  thing  waiting  there  when  she  returned 
from  an  absence;  she  could  hear  about  it  and  get 
over  her  greetings  and  out  for  an  hour  by  herself. 
She  increased  her  pace  until  Mr.  Shatov  panted  for 

—139— 


DEADLOCK 

breath  as  he  plunged  along  by  her  side.  The  random 
remarks  she  made  to  cover  her  thoughts  hurtled  about 
in  the  darkness,  stabbing  her  with  vindictive  unhelpful 
comments  on  her  English  stiffness,  embarrassing  her 
gait  and  increasing  her  angry  fatigue.  He  responded 
in  breathless  shouts  as  if  they  were  already  in  the 
crowded  streets.  They  reached  pavement,  big  houses 
loomed  up  out  of  the  mist,  the  gates  were  just  ahead. 
"We  had  better  rather  at  once  take  an  omnibus,"  he 
shouted  as  they  emerged  into  the  Euston  Road  and 
a  blue  umbrella  bus  passed  heavily  by.  She  hurried 
forward  to  catch  it  at  the  corner.  "That  goes  only 
to  Gower  Street,"  thundered  his  following  voice.  She 
was  in  amongst  the  crowd  at  the  corner  and  as  again 
the  bus  lumbered  off,  inside  it  in  the  one  remaining 
seat. 

In  the  dimly  lit  little  interior,  moving  along  through 
the  backward  flowing  mist-screened  street  lights,  she 
dropped  away  from  the  circling  worlds  of  sound,  and 
sat  thoughtless  gazing  inward  along  the  bright  kaleido- 
scopic vistas  that  came  unfailing  and  unchanged  when- 
ever she  was  moving,  alone  and  still,  against  the 
moving  tide  of  London.  When  the  bus  pulled  up  for 
a  moment  in  a  block,  she  searched  the  gloom-girt  forms 
within  her  view.  The  blue  light  of  the  omnibus  lamp 
lit  up  faces  entangled  in  visible  thoughts,  unwillingly 
suffering  the  temporary  suspension  of  activity,  but  in 
the  far  corner  there  was  one,  alive  and  aware,  gazing 
untrammelled  at  visions  like  her  own,  making  them 
true,  the  common  possession  of  all  who  would  be  still. 
Why  were  these  people  only  to  be  met  in  omnibuses 
and  now  and  again  walking  sightless  along  crowded 
streets?     Perhaps  in  life  they  were  always  surrounded 

— 140 — 


DEADLOCK 

with  people  with  whom  they  did  not  dare  to  be  still. 
In  speech  that  man  would  be  a  little  defensive  and 
q^nical.  He  had  a  study,  where  he  went  to  get  away 
from  everything,  to  work;  sometimes  he  only  pre- 
tended to  work.  He  did  not  guess  that  any  one  outside 
books,  certainly  not  any  women  anywhere  .  .  .  the 
bus  rumbled  on  again;  by  the  time  it  reached  Gower 
Street  she  had  passed  through  thoughtless  ages.  The 
brown  house  and  her  room  in  it  called  to  her  recreated. 
Once  through  the  greetings  awaiting  her,  she  would  be 
free  upstairs  amongst  its  populous  lights  and  shadows ; 
perhaps  get  in  unseen  and  keep  her  visions  untouched 
through  the  evening.  She  would  have  an  evening's 
washing  and  ironing.  Mr.  Shatov  would  not  expect 
her  tonight. 

Mrs.  Bailey,  hurrying  through  the  hall  to  dinner, 
came  forward  dropping  bright  quiet  cries  of  welcome 
from  the  edge  of  her  fullest  mood  of  excited  serenity, 
gently  chiding  Miriam's  inbreaking  expectant  un- 
preparedness  with  her  mysterious  gradual  way  of 
imparting  bit  by  bit,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
remember  how  and  when  she  had  begun,  the  new 
thing;  lingering  silently  at  the  end  of  her  story  to 
disarm  objections  before  she  turned  and  flitted,  with 
a  reassuring  pleading  backward  smile,  into  her  newly 
crowded  dining-room.  A  moment  later  Miriam  was 
in  the  drawing-room,  swiftly  consulting  the  profile  of 
a  tweed-clad  form  bent  busily  writing  at  the  little  table 
under  the  gas.  The  man  leapt  up  and  faced  her  with 
a  swift  ironic  bow,  strode  to  the  hearth-rug  and  began 
to  speak.  She  remained  rooted  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  amplifying  her  impression  as  his  sentence  went 
on,  addressed  not  to  her,  though  he  occasionally  flung 

—  141— 


DEADLOCK 

a  cold  piercing  glance  her  way,  but  to  the  whole  room, 
In  a  high,  narrowly-rounded,  fluting  tone  as  If  he  were 
speaking  Into  a  cornet.  His  head  had  gone  up  above 
the  level  of  the  brighter  light  but  It  looked  even  more 
greyish  yellow  than  before,  the  sparse  hair,  the  eyes, 
the  abruptly  blanching  moustache  moving  most  re- 
markably with  his  fluting  voice,  the  pale  tweed  suit, 
all  one  even  yellowish  grey,  and  his  whole  reared  up, 
half  soldierly  form,  at  bay,  as  if  the  room  were  full  of 
jeering  voices.  His  long  declamation  contained  all 
that  Mrs.  Bailey  had  said  and  told  her  also  that  the 
lecture  was  about  Spanish  literature.  London 
was  extraordinary.  A  Frenchman,  suddenly  giving  a 
lecture  In  English  on  Spanish  literature;  at  the  end  of 
next  week.  He  wound  up  his  tremendous  sentence 
by  telling  her  that  she  was  a  secretary, and  must  excuse 
his  urgency,  that  he  required  the  services  of  an 
English  secretary  and  would  now,  with  her  permission 
read  the  first  part  of  the  lecture  that  she  might  tell 
him  whenever  his  Intonation  was  at  fault.  That 
would  be  immensely  Interesting  and  easy  she  thought, 
and  sat  down  on  the  music  stool  while  he  gathered  up 
his  sheaf  of  papers  and  explained  that  foreign  intona- 
tion was  the  always  neglected  corner-stone  of  the 
mastery  of  a  foreign  tongue. 

In  a  moment  he  was  back  again  on  the  hearth-rug, 
beginning  his  lecture  In  a  tone  that  was  such  an  exag- 
geration of  his  conversational  voice,  so  high-pitched 
and  whistllngly  rounded,  so  extremely  careful  In  enun- 
ciation that  Miriam  could  hear  nothing  but  a  loud  thin 
hooting,  full  of  the  echoes  of  the  careful  beginnings 
and  endings  of  English  words. 

The  first  sentence  was  much  longer  than  his  address 
— 142 — 


DEADLOCK 

to  her  and  when  it  ended  she  did  not  know  how  or 
where  to  begin.  But  he  had  taken  a  step  forward 
on  the  hearth-rug  and  begun  another  sentence,  on  a 
higher  pitch,  with  a  touch  of  anger  in  his  voice. 
She  checked  a  spasm  of  laughter  and  sat  tense,  trying 
to  ignore  the  caricature  of  his  style  that  gambolled 
in  her  mind.  The  sentence,  even  longer  than  the  first, 
ended  interrogatively  with  a  fling  of  the  head.  It 
was  tragic.  She  was  quick,  quicker  than  any  one  she 
knew,  in  catching  words  or  meanings  through  strange 
disguises.  An  audience  would  be  either  furious  or 
hysterical. 

"You  don't  want  to  threaten  your  audience,"  she 
said  very  quietly  in  a  low  tone,  hoping  by  contrast  to 
throw  up  his  clamour. 

"I  dew  not  threaten,"  he  said  with  suave  patience, 
"doubtless  hew  are  misled.  It  is  a  great  occasion; 
and  a  great  subject;  of  hwich  I  am  master;  in  these 
circumstances  a  certain  bravura  is  imperative.  Hew 
du  not  propose  that  I  should  plead  for  Cervantes  for 
example?     I   will   continue." 

The  sentences  grew  in  length,  each  one  climbing, 
through  a  host  of  dependent  clauses,  small  sharp 
hammer  blows  of  angry  assertion,  and  increasing  in 
tone  to  a  climax  of  defiance  flung  down  from  a  height 
that  left  no  further  possibility  but  a  descent  to  a 
level  quiet  deduction  .  .  ,  and  now  dear  brethren  .  .  . 
but  the  succeeding  sentence  came  fresh  to  the  attack, 
crouching,  gathering  up  the  fury  of  its  forerunner, 
leaping  forward,  dipping  through  still  longer  depend- 
ent loops,  accumulating,  swelling  and  expanding  to 
even  greater  emphasis  and  volume.     She  gave  up  all 

—  143— 


DEADLOCK 

hope  of  gathering  even  the  gist  of  the  meaning;  he 
seemed  to  be  saying  one  thing  over  and  over  again. 
You  protest  too  much  .  .  .  don't  protest;  don't  ges- 
ticulate .  .  .  the  English  don't  gesticulate  .  .  . 
but  he  used  no  gesticulations;  he  was  aware;  that 
was  a  deliberate  attempt  to  be  English.  But  his 
whole  person  was  a  gesture,  expanding,  vibrating. 

"You  mean  by  intonation  only  the  intonation  of 
single  words,  not  of  the  whole?" 

"Precisely,  Correctness  of  accent  and  emphasis 
is  my  aim.  But  you  imply  a  criticism,"  he  fluted,  un- 
shaken by  his  storm. 

"Yes.  First  you  must  not  pronounce  each  word 
quite  so  carefully.  It  makes  them  echo  into  each 
other.  Then  of  course  if  you  want  to  be  quite 
English  you  must  be  less  emphatic." 

"I  must  assume  an  air  of  indifference?" 

"An  English  audience  will  be  more  likely  to  under- 
stand if  you  are  slower  and  more  quiet.  You 
ought  to  have  gaps  now  and  then." 

"Intervals  for  yawning.  Yew  shall  indicate 
suitable  moments.  I  see  that  I  am  fortunate  to  have 
met-hew.  I  will  take  lessons,  for  this  lecture,  in  the 
true    frigid   English    dignity." 

The  door  opened,  admitting  Mr.  Shatov. 

"Mr. — a' — Shatov;  will  be  so  good;  as  to  grant 
five  minutes;  for  the  conclusion  of  this  interview." 
He  walked  forward  bowing  with  each  phrase,  hiding 
the  intruder  and  bowing  him  out  of  the  room.  The 
little  dark  figure  reappeared  punctually,  and  he  rose 
with  a  snap  of  the  fingers.  "The  English,"  he  de- 
claimed  at   large,    "have   an   excellent   phrase;   which 

—144— 


DEADLOCK 

says,  time  is  money.  This  phrase,  good  though  it 
is,  might  be  improved.  Time  is  let  out  on  usury. 
So,  for  the  present,  I  shall  leave  yew."  He  turned  on 
the  sweeping  bow  that  accompanied  his  last  word  and 
stepped  quickly  with  a  curious  stiff  marching  elegance 
down  the  room  towards  Mr.  Shatov  as  though  he 
did  not  see  him,  avoiding  him  at  the  last  moment  by 
a  sharp  curve.  Outside  the  closed  door  he  rattled 
the  handle  as  if  to  make  sure  it  was  quite  shut. 

Miriam  sought  intently  for  a  definition  of  what 
had  been  in  the  room  ...  a  strange  echoing  shadow 
of  some  real  thing  .  .  .  there  was  something  real  .  .  . 
just  behind  the  empty  sound  of  him  .  .  .  somewhere 
in  the  rolled  up  manuscript  so  remarkably  in  her  hands, 
making  a  difference  in  the  evening  brought  in  by  Mr. 
Shatov.  Hunger  and  fatigue  were  assailing  her; 
but  the  long  rich  day  mounting  up  to  an  increasing 
sense  of  incessant  life  crowding  upon  her  unsought, 
at  her  disposal,  could  not  be  snapped  by  retirement 
for  a  solitary  meal.  He  walked  quickly  to  the 
hearth-rug,  bent  forward  and  spat  into  the  empty 
grate. 

'What  is  this  fellow?" 

She  broke  through  her  frozen  astonishment,  '"I 
havei  just  undertaken  a  perfectly  frightful  thing," 
she  said,  quivering  with  disgust. 

"I  find  him  insufferable." 

"The  French  sing  their  language.  It  is  like  a 
recitative,  the  tone  goes  up  and  down  and  along  and 
up  and  down  again  with  its  own  expression;  the 
words  have  to  fit  the  tune.  They  have  no  single 
abrupt  words  and  phrases,  the  whole  thing  is  a  shape 

—145— 


DEADLOCK 

of  tones.  It's  extraordinary.  All  somehow  arranged ; 
in  a  pattern;  different  patterns  for  the  expression 
of  the  different  emotions.  In  their  English  it  makes 
the  expression  swallow  up  the  words,  a  wind  driving 
through  them  continuously  .   .   .  liaison."    • 

"It  is  a  musical  tongue  certainly." 

"That's  it;  music.  But  the  individual  is  not  there; 
because  the  tunes  are  all  arranged  for  him  and  he 
sings  them,  according  to  rule.  The  Academy.  The 
purity  of  the  French  language.  I'm  getting  so  inter- 
ested." 

"I  find  this  Lahitte  a  most  pretentious  fellow." 

"He  is  not  in  the  least  what  I  expected  a  French- 
man to  be  like.     I  can't  understand  his  being  so  fair." 

"What  is  it  you  have  undertaken?" 

He  was  suddenly  grave  and  impressed  by  the  idea 
of  the  lecture  .  .  .  why  would  it  be  such  good  practice 
for  her  to  read  and  correct  it? 

Her  answer  plunged  him  into  thought  from  which 
he  branched  forth  with  sudden  eagerness  ...  a 
French  translation  of  a  Russian  book  revealing 
marvellously  the  interior,  the  self-life,  of  a  doctor, 
through  his  training  and  experience  in  practice.  It 
would  be  a  revelation  to  English  readers  and  she 
should  translate  it;  in  collaboration  with  him;  if  she 
would  excuse  the  intimate  subjects  it  necessarily 
dealt  with.  He  was  off  and  back  again  with  the  book 
and  reading  rapidly  while  she  still  pondered  his 
grave  enthusiasm  over  her  recent  undertaking.  In 
comparison  with  this  idea  of  translating  a  book,  it 
seemed  nothing.  But  that  was  only  one  of  his  wild 
notions.      It  would   take   years   of   evenings   of  hard 

— 146 — 


DEADLOCK 

work.  Meanwhile  some  one  else  would  do  It.  They 
would  work  at  it  together.  With  Saturdays  and 
Sundays  it  would  not  take  so  long  ...  it  would 
set  her  standing  within  the  foreign  world  she  had 
.  touched  at  so  many  points  during  the  last  few  years, 
and  that  had  become,  since  the  coming  of  Mr.  Shatov, 
more  and  more  clearly  a  continuation  of  the  first 
beginnings  at  school  .  .  .  alors  un  f  aible  chuchotement 
se  fit  entendre  au  premier  ...  a  I'entree  de  ce 
bassin,  des  arbres  ...  se  fit  entendre  .  .  .  alors  un 
faible  chuchotement  se  fit  entendre  ...  all  one  word 
on  one  tone  ...  it  must  have  been  an  extract  from 
some  dull  mysterious  story  with  an  explanation  or 
deliberately  without  an  explanation;  then  a  faint 
whispering  was  audible  on  the  first  floor;  that  was 
utterly  different.  It  was  the  shape  and  sound  of  the 
sentences,  without  the  meaning  that  was  so  wonderful 
— alors  une  faible  parapluie  se  fit  entendre  au 
premier — Jan  would  scream,  but  it  was  just  as 
wonderful  .  .  .  there  must  be  some  meaning  in 
having  so  passionately  loved  the  little  book  without 
having  known  that  it  was  selections  from  French  prose ; 
in  getting  to  Germany  and  finding  there  another 
world  of  beautiful  shape  and  sound,  apart  from 
people  and  thoughts  and  things  that  happened  .  .  . 
Durch  die  ganze  lange  Nacht,  bis  tief  in  den  Morgen 
hinein  ...  It  was  opening  again,  drawing  her  in 
away  from  the  tuneless  shapeless 

"Are  you  listening?" 

"Yes,  but  it  hasn't  begun." 

"That  Is  true.     We  can  really  omit  all  this  intro- 
duction and  at  once  begin." 

As  the  pages  succeeded  each  other  her  hunger  and 
—147— 


DEADLOCK 

fatigue    changed    to    a    fever    of    anxious    attention. 

"Well?  Is  not  that  a  masterly  analysis?  You  see. 
That  should  be  translated  for  your  Wimpole  Street." 

"I  don't  know.  We  are  not  like  that.  It  would 
never  occur  to  an  English  doctor  to  write  for  the 
general  public  anything  that  could  shake  its  confidence 
in  doctors.  Foreigners  are  different.  They  think 
nothing  of  revealing  and  discussing  the  most  awful 
things.      It's  pessimism.     They  like  pessimism." 

"It  is  a  serious  mistake  to  regard  enlightenment 
as  pessimism." 

"I  don't  believe  in  Continental  luminaries." 

"Your  prejudices  are  at  least  frank." 

"I  had  forgotten  the  author  was  Russian.  That 
Idea  of  the  rush  of  mixed  subjects  coming  to  the 
medical  student  too  quickly  one  after  the  other  for 
anything  to  be  taken  in,  is  awful,  and  perfectly  true. 
Hosts  of  subjects,  hosts  of  different  theories  about 
all  of  them;  no  general  ideas.  .  .  .  Doctors  have  to 
specialize  when  they  are  boys  and  they  remain 
ignorant  all  their  lives." 

"This  Is  not  only  for  doctors.  You  have  touched 
the  great  problem  of  modem  life.  No  man  can, 
today,  see  over  the  whole  field  of  knowledge.  The 
great  Leibnitz  was  the  last  to  whom  this  was 
possible." 

To  be  Ignorant  always,  knowing  one  must  die  in 
Ignorance.  What  was  the  use  of  going  on?  Life 
looked  endless.  Suddenly  It  would  seem  short. 
"Wait  till  you're  fifty  and  the  years  pass  like 
weeks."  You  would  begin  to  see  clearly  all  round 
you  the  things  you  could  never  do.  Never  go  to 
Japan.       Already     It    was    beginning.       No    college. 

—148— 


DEADLOCK 

No  wanderjahre.  .  .  .     Translating  books  might  lead 
to  wanderjahre. 

"It's  certainly  a  book  that  ought  to  be-  translated." 
At  least  there  could  be  no  more  "Eminent  men." 
There  might  always  be  some  one  at  work  somewhere 
who  would  suddenly  knock  him  down  like  a  nine- 
pin. 

"Well  you  shall  see.  I  will  read  you  a  passage 
from  later,  that  you  may  judge  whethef  you  will 
care.  I  must  tell  you  it  deals  of  intimate  matters. 
You  must  excuse." 

It  was  not  only  that  he  thought  she  might  object. 
He  also  realized  that  the  English  reserves  between 
them  were  being  swept  away.  It  was  strange  that 
a  free  Russian  should  have  these  sensibilities.  He 
read  his  extract  through,  bringing  it  to  a  close  in 
shaken  tones,  his  features  sensitively  working. 

Every  one  ought  to  know.  ...  It  ought  to  be 
shouted  from  the  house-tops  that  a  perfectly  ordinary 
case  leaves  the  patient  sans  connaissance  et  nageant 
dans  le  sang. 

"It's  very  interesting,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "but 
in  English  it  would  be  condemned  as  unsuitable  for 
general  reading." 

"I  thought  that  possible." 

"The  papers  would  solemnly  say  that  it  deals  with 
subjects  that  are  better  veiled." 

"Indeed  it  is  remarkable.  John  Bull  is  indeed 
the  perfect  ostrich." 

"Oh  those  men  who  write  like  that  don't  want 
them  veiled  from  themselves  J' 

"I  will  tell  you  more  than  that.  The  Paris 
pornographia  lives  on  its  English  patrons." 

—149— 


DEADLOCK 

"Oh  no;  I'm  sure  it  doesn't." 

"On  the  contrary  I  assure  you  this  is  a  fact.  Any 
French  bookseller  will  tell  you.  I  see  that  this  dis- 
tresses you.  It  is  not  perhaps  in  every  case  so  base 
as  would  appear.  There  is  always  even  in  quite 
deliberate  French  obscenity  a  certain  esprit.  These 
subjects  lend  themselves." 

"Oh  they  don't  care  about  the  esprit.  It's  because 
they  think  they  are  being  improper.  They  like  to 
be  what  they  call  men  of  the  world,  in  possession  of 
a  fund  of  things  they  think  can't  be  talked  about; 
you  can  see  their  silly  thoughts  by  the  way  they  glance 
at  each  other;  it's  all  about  nothing.  What  is  ob- 
scenity? And  the  other  half  of  them  is  ladies,  who 
shout  things  by  always  carefully  avoiding  them;  or, 
if  they  are  'racey'  flatter  men's  topics  by  laughing 
in  a  pretended  hilarious  embarrassment,  hitting  them 
as  it  were,  and  rushing  on  to  something  else,  very  ani- 
mated by  a  becoming  blush.  I  never  realized  that 
before.     But  that's  the  secret.     What  is  obscenity?" 

"You  have  touched  a  most  interesting  problem  of 
psychology." 

"Besides  Paris  is  full  of  Americans." 

"It  is  the  same  proposition.  They  are  the  cousins 
of  the  English." 

"I  think  the  American  'man  of  the  world'  is  much 
more  objectionable.  He  is  so  horribly  raw  that  he 
can't  help  boasting  openly,  and  the  American  woman 
flatters  him,  openly.  It's  extraordinary,  I  mean  the 
kind  of  heavy-featured  fat  middle-aged  American 
woman  who  doesn't  smoke  and  thinks  that  voting 
would  be  unseemly  for  women.  It  used  to  make  me 
simply  ill  with  fury.   .   .   .     Dr.  Bunyan  Hopkinson's 

— 150 — 


DEADLOCK 

brother  came  over  for  July  and  August  two  years 
ago.  He  was  appalling.  With  a  bright  fair  beard, 
and  a  most  frightful  twang;  the  worst  I've  ever  heard. 
He  used  to  talk  incessantly,  as  if  the  whole  table  were 
waiting  for  his  ideas.  And  knew  everything,  in  the 
most  awful  superficial  newspaper  way.  They  have 
absolutely  no  souls  at  all.  I  never  saw  an  American 
soul.  The  Canadians  have.  The  Americans,  at 
least  the  women,  have  reproachful  ideals  that  they 
all  agree  about.  So  that  they  are  all  like  one  person; 
all  the  same  effect.  But  wasn't  it  screaming,  Bunyan 
Hopkinson's  brother  was  called  Bacchus.  Yes.  Did 
you  ever  hear  anything  so  screaming?  Isn't  that 
enough?  Doesn't  it  explain  everything?  He  was 
a  doctor  too.  He  sat  next  to  an  elderly  woman  who 
was  always  scolding  and  preaching.  She  had  an 
enormous  American  figure,  and  Guelph  eyelids  and 
Guelph  cheeks  coming  down  below  her  chin  making 
great  lengthways  furrows  on  either  side  of  it.  But 
when  Dr.  Bacchus  began  to  talk  about  Paris  she  would 
listen  respectfully.  He  used  always  to  be  offering  to 
show  other  men  round  Paris.  There's  no  one  alive, 
he  would  say,  can  show  me  anything  in  Parrus  night- 
life I've  not  seen.  Ah,  she  would  say,  any  one  can  see 
you're  a  man  of  the  world,  doctor.  It  spoils  the  very 
idea  of  those  little  cabarets  and  whatever  awful  haunts 
there  may  be  in  Paris  to  think  of  Americans  there, 
seeing  nothing." 

"They  have  certainly  a  most  remarkable  naivety." 

"I've  today  seen  your  Queen.     She's  just  a  vurry 
hoamely  little  old  lady." 

"What?     What  is  that?" 

"Then  they  were  funny."     She  searched  her  mem- 
—151— 


DEADLOCK 

ory  to  make  him  go  on  giggling.  It  was  extraordinary 
too,  to  discover  what  impressions  she  had  gathered 
without  knowing  it,  never  considering  or  stating  them 
to  herself.  He  was  getting  them.  If  she  ever  stated 
them  again  they  would  be  stale;  practised  clever  talk; 
that  was  how  talk  was  done  .  .  .  saying  things  over 
and  over  again  to  numbers  of  people,  each  time  a 
little  more  brilliantly  and  the  speaker  a  little  more 
dead  behind  it.     Nothing  could  be  repeated. 

"That  was  the  same  year.  Mrs.  Bailey  had  a 
splendid  August.  Eighteen  Americans.  I  used  to 
go  down  to  meals  just  to  be  in  the  midst  of  the  noise. 
You  never  heard  anything  like  it  in  your  life.  If 
you  listened  without  trying  to  distinguish  anything 
it  was  marvellous,  in  the  bright  sunshine  at  breakfast. 
It  sent  you  up  and  up,  into  the  sky,  the  morning 
stars  singing  together.  No.  I  mean  there  was 
something  really  wonderful  about  it.  It  reminded 
me  of  the  effect  that  almost  comes  when  people 
decide  to  have  a  Dutch  concert.  You  know.  All 
singing  different  songs  at  the  same  time.  It's  always 
spoilt.  People  begin  it  prepared  not  to  hear  the 
whole  effect.  I  did.  I  did  not  realize  there  would 
be  a  wonderful  whole.  And  always  just  as  the  effect 
is  beginning,  two  or  three  people  break  down  because 
they  cannot  hold  their  songs,  and  some  laugh  because 
they  are  prepared  only  to  laugh,  and  the  unmusical 
people  put  their  fingers  to  their  ears,  because  they 
can  never  hear  sound,  never  anything  but  a  tune. 
Oh  it  would  be  so  wonderful,  if  only  it  could  be  really 
held,  every  one  singing  for  all  they  were  worth." 

"Have  you  heard  that  the  Shah  preferred  of  a 
whole  concert,  only  the  tuning  of  the  orchestra?" 

—  152— 


DEADLOCK 

"I  know.  That's  always  supposed  to  be  a  joke. 
But  the  tuning  of  an  orchestra,  if  there  is  enough 
of  it  at  once,  is  wonderful.  Why  not  both?  It's 
the  appalling  way  people  have  of  liking  only  one 
thing.  Liking  'good'  music  and  disapproving  of 
waltzes.     The  Germans  don't." 

"But  when  I  thought  of  one  of  my  sisters,  I  used 
to  want  to  die.  If  she  had  been  there  we  should 
both  have  yelled,  without  moving  a  muscle  of  our 
faces.  Harriett  is  perfect  for  that.  We  learnt  it 
in  church.  But  when  she  used  to  twist  all  the  fingers 
of  her  gloves  into  points,  under  the  seat,  and  then  show 
them  to  me  suddenly,  in  the  Litany"   .   .   . 

"What?  What  is  this?  No.  Tell  me.  You 
were  very  happy  with  your  sisters." 

"That's  all.     She  waggled  them,  suddenly." 

"A  happy  childhood  is  perhaps  the  wo^^fortunate 
gift  in  hfe." 

"You  don't  know  you're  happy." 

"That  is  not  the  point.  This  early  surrounding 
lingers  and  affects  all  the  life." 

"It's  not  quite  true  that  you  don't  know.  Because 
you  know  when  you  are  quite  young  how  desperately 
you  love  a  place.  The  day  we  left  our  first  home  I 
remember  putting  marbles  in  my  pocket  in  the  nursery, 
not  minding,  only  thinking  I  should  take  them  out 
again  by  the  sea,  and  downstairs  in  the  garden  I 
suddenly  realized,  the  sun  was  shining  on  to  the  porch 
and  bees  swinging  about  amongst  the  roses,  and  I  ran 
back  and  kissed  the  warm  yellow  stone  of  the  house, 
sobbing  most  bitterly  and  knowing  my  life  was  at  an 
end." 

"But  you   were   six  years   old.     That  is   what   is 

—153— 


DEADLOCK 

important.  You  do  not  perhaps  realize  the  extent 
of  the  remaining  of  this  free  life  of  garden  and 
woods  with  you." 

"I  know  it  is  there.  I  often  dream  I  am  there 
and  wake  there,  and  for  a  few  minutes  I  could  draw 
the  house,  the  peaked  shapes  of  it,  and  the  porches 
and  French  windows  and  the  way  the  lawns  went  off 
into  the  mysterious  parts  of  the  garden;  and  I  feel 
then  as  if  going  away  were  still  to  come,  an  awful 
thing  that  never  had  happened.  Of  course  after  the 
years  in  the  small  house  by  the  sea,  I  don't  remember 
the  house,  only  the  sea  and  the  rocks,  the  house  at 
Barnes  grew  in  a  way  to  be  the  same,  but  I  never 
got  over  the  suddenness  of  the  end  of  the  garden  and 
always  expected  it  to  branch  out  into  distances,  every 
time  I  ran  down  it.  I  used  to  run  up  and  down  to 
make  it  more.  .  .  ."  He  was  no  longer  following 
with  such  an  intentness  of  interest.  There  ought  to 
have  been  more  about  those  first  years.  Now,  no 
one  would  ever  know  what  they  had  been.   .   .   . 

"But  you  know,  although  nothing  the  Americans 
say  is  worth  hearing,  there  is  something  wonderful 
about  the  way  they  go  on.  The  way  they  all  talk 
at  once,  nobody  listening.  It's  because  they  all  know 
what  they  are  going  to  say  and  every  one  wants 
to  say  it  first.  They  used  to  talk  in  parties;  a  set 
of  people  at  one  part  of  the  table  all  screaming  together 
towards  a  set  at  another  part,  and  other  people 
screaming  across  them  at  another  set.  The  others 
began  screaming  back  at  once,  endless  questions,  and 
if  two  sets  had  seen  the  same  thing  they  all  screamed 
together  as  soon  as  it  was  mentioned.  I  never  heard 
one  person  talking  alone ;  not  in  that  August  set.     And 

—  154— 


DEADLOCK 

there  was  one  woman,  a  clergyman's  wife,  with  a  little 
pretty  oval  face  and  the  most  perfect  muslin  dresses 
which  she  did  not  appreciate,  who  used  to  begin  as  soon 
as  she  came  in  and  go  on  right  through  the  meal, 
filling  up  the  gaps  in  her  talk  with  gasps  and  excla- 
matiqns.  Whenever  any  place  was  mentioned  she 
used  to  turn  and  put  her  hand  over  her  husband's 
mouth  till  she  had  begun  what  she  wanted  to  say, 
jumping  up  and  down  in  her  chair." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"I  know  now  why  they  all  have  such  high  piercing 
voices.  It  comes  from  talking  in  sets.  But  I  always 
used  to  wonder  what  went  on  behind;  in  their  own 
minds." 

"Do  not  wonder.  There  is  no  arriere-boutique  in 
these  types.     They  are  most  simple." 

"They  don't  like  us.  They  think  we  are  frigid; 
not  cordial,  is  one  of  their  phrases." 

"That  is  a  most  superficial  judgment.  Stay!  I 
have  a  splendid  idea.  We  will  leave  for  the  present 
this  large  book.  But  why  should  you  not  immediately 
translate  a  story  of  Andrayeff  ?  They  are  quite  short 
and  most  beautiful.  You  will  find  them  unlike  any- 
thing you  have  read.  I  have  them  here.  We  will 
at  once  read  one." 

"I  must  go  out;  it  will  soon  be  too  late." 

"You  have  had  no  dinner?  Ach,  that  is  monstrous. 
Why  did  you  not  tell  me?  .  .  .  It  is  half  eleven. 
There  is  yet  time.  We  will  go  to  my  dumme  August 
in  the  East-end." 

In  her  room,  Miriam  glanced  at  the  magic  pages, 
hungrily  gathering  German  phrases,  and  all  the  way 
to  Aldgate,  sitting  back  exhausted  In  her  corner  she 

—155— 


DEADLOCK 

clung  to  them,  resting  in  a  "stube"  with  "Gebirge"  all 
round  it  in  morning  and  evening  light.  When 
they  reached  their  destination  she  had  forgotten  she 
was  in  London.  But  the  station  was  so  remote  and 
unknown  to  her  that  it  scarcely  disturbed  her  detach- 
ment. The  wide  thoroughfare  into  which  they 
emerged  was  still  and  serene  within  its  darkness  behind 
the  spread  veil  of  street  sounds,  filled  with  the 
pure  sweet  air  of  adventure.  The  restaurant  across 
the  road  was  a  Httle  square  of  approaching  golden 
light.  It  was  completely  strange.  There  was  a  tang 
of  coarse  tobacco  in  the  air,  but  not  the  usual  restau- 
rant smell.  There  were  no  marble-topped  tables;  little 
square  wooden-legged  tables,  with  table-covers  of  red 
and  blue  chequered  cotton;  pewter  flagons,  foreigners, 
Germans,  sturdy  confident  Germans  sitting  about.  It 
was  Germany. 

"Well?  Is  it  not  perfectly  dumme  August?" 
whispered  Mr.  Shatov  as  they  took  an  empty  corner 
table,  commanding  the  whole  room.  There  was  a 
wooden  partition  behind  them,  giving  out  life.  Her 
fatigue  left  her. 

"Fiir  mich  ist  es  absolut  als  war  ich  in  Hannover." 

"At  least  here  you  shall  have  an  honest  meal. 
Kellner!" 

She  did  not  want  to  eat;  only  to  sit  and  hear  the 
deep  German  voices  all  round  her  and  take  in,  with- 
out observation,  kindly  German  forms. 

"Simply  you  are  too  tired.  We  will  have  at  least 
some  strong  soup  and  Lager." 

The  familiar  smooth  savoury  broth  abolished  the 
years  since  she  had  left  Germany.  Once  more  she 
was  finding  the  genuine  honest  German  quality  reflected 
in  the  completeness  of  their  food;  all  of  it  even  the 

-156- 


DEADLOCK 

bread,  savoury  and  good  through  and  through, 
satisfying  in  a  way  no  English  food  was  satisfying, 
making  English  food  seem  poor,  ill-combined,  either 
heavy  and  dull,  or  too  exciting.  She  saw  German 
kitchens,  alles  rein  und  sauber,  blank  poliert,  large 
bony  low-browed  angry-voiced  German  servants  in 
check  dresses  and  blue  aprons,  everlastingly  responsibly 
at  work. 

And  here  was  Lager,  the  Lager  of  the  booming 
musical  German  cafes.  She  was  sure  she  would  not 
(like  it.  He  was  taking  for  granted  that  she  was 
accustomed  to  beer,  and  would  not  know  that  she  was 
having  a  tremendous  adventure.  To  him  it  did  not 
seem  either  shocking  or  vulgar.  Protected  by  his 
unconsciousness  she  would  get  perhaps  further  than 
ever  before  into  the  secret  of  Germany.  She  took 
a  small  sip  and  shuddered.  The  foamy  surface  was 
pleasant;  but  the  strange  biting  bitterness  behind 
it  was  like  some  sudden  formidable  personal 
attack. 

"That  is  the  first  time  I've  tasted  beer,"  she  said, 
"I  don't  like  it." 

"You  have  not  yet  tasted  it.  You  must  swallow, 
not  sip." 

"It  makes  your  throat  sore.  It's  so  bitter.  I 
always  imagined  beer  was  sweet." 

"There  is  perhaps  something  a  little  acid  in  this 
imported  Lager;  but  the  bitterness  Is  most  good.  It 
is  this  biting  quality  that  is  a  most  excellent  aperatif. 
We  will  have  also  honey  cakes." 

The  light,  not  too  sweet,  porous  crisp  mealiness 
of  the  little  cakes  was  German  altogether.  Mr. 
Shatov  was  whispering  busily.  She  feared  he  would 
be  heard.     There  was  not  much  conversation  In  the 

—157— 


DEADLOCK 

room ;  large  deep  solid  sentences  reverberated  through 
it  with  a  sound  of  thoughtfulness,  as  though  the 
speakers  were  preoccupied,  like  travellers,  talking  with 
their  eyes  turned  inward  upon  their  destination.  All 
of  them  appeared  serious  and  sober. 

"Just  as  we  crossed  the  frontier  one  big  fat  German 
roused  up  and  said  in  an  immense  rolling  voice.    'Hier 
kann  man  wenigstens  verniinftiges  Bier  haben !'  " 
"Ssh !     They  will  hear." 

"What  then?     They  are  here  nearly  all  Jews." 
"Jews?     But  they  are  nearly  all  fair!" 
"There  may  be  a  few  Germans.     But  many  Jews 
are  fair.     But  you  have  not  told  me  what  you  think 
of  this  story." 

"Oh  I  can  see  the  man  and  hear  his  voice."  .  .  . 
Nearly  all  the  people  in  the  room  were  dark.  It 
was  the  man  sitting  near,  with  the  large  fresh  fair 
German  face  who  had  made  her  imagine  the  room 
was  full  of  Germans.  But  there  were  no  hooked 
noses;  no  one  in  the  least  like  Shylock.  What 
were  Jews?  How  did  he  know  the  room  was  full 
of  them?  Why  did  the  idea  cast  a  chill  on  the  things 
she  had  brought  in  with  her?  She  drew  the  little 
book  from  her  pocket  and  took  a  long  draught  of 
Lager.  It  was  still  bitter,  but  the  bitterness  was 
only  an  astringent  tang  in  the  strange  cool  livel)^ 
frothy  tide;  a  tingling  warmth  ran  through  her  nerves, 
expanding  to  a  golden  glow  that  flowed  through  the 
room  and  held  her  alight  within  itself,  an  elastic 
impalpable  bodiless  mind.  Mr.  Shatov  was  sitting  far 
away  at  her  side,  in  his  eyes  a  serene  communion  with 
his  surroundings.  It  was  not  his  usual  restaurant 
manner;  it  was  strange  .   .   .   pewter  was  right;  Lager 

—  158— 


DEADLOCK 

was  a  bright  tumult,  frothing  and  flowing  easily  over 
the  smooth  dull  metal. 

Translating  the  phrases  made  them  fall  to  pieces. 
She  tried  several  renderings  of  a  single  phrase;  none 
of  them  would  do;  the  original  phrase  faded,  and 
together  with  it  just  beyond  her  reach,  the  right 
English  words.  Scraps  of  conversation  reached  her 
from  all  over  the  room;  eloquent  words,  fashioned 
easily,  without  thought,  a  perfect  flowing  of  under- 
standing, to  and  fro,  without  obstruction.  No  heaven 
could  be  more  marvellous.  People  talked  incessantly 
because  in  silence  they  were  ghosts.  A  single  word 
sounded  the  secret  of  the  universe  .  .  .  there  is  a 
dead  level  of  intelligence  throughout  humanity.  She 
listened  in  wonder  whilst  she  explained  aloud  that 
she  had  learned  most  of  her  French  by  reading  again 
and  again  for  the  sake  of  the  long  even  rhythm  of 
its  sentences,  one  book;  that  this  was  the  only  honest 
way  to  acquire  a  language.  It  was  like  the  sea,  each 
sentence  a  wave  rolling  in,  rising  till  the  light  shone 
through  its  glistening  crest,  dropping,  to  give  way 
to  the  next  on-coming  wave,  the  meaning  gathering, 
accumulating,  coming  nearer  with  each  rising  and 
falling  rhythm;  each  chapter  a  renewed  tide  monot- 
onously repeating  throughout  the  book  in  every 
tone  of  light  and  shade  the  same  burden,  the  secret 
of  everything  in  the  world. 

"I  cannot  appreciate  these  literary  preciosities; 
but  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  are  wrong  in  confining 
yourself  to  this  one  French  book.  This  mystical 
philosophy  is  enervant.  There  are  many  French 
books  you  should  read  before  this  man.  Balzac  for 
instance." 

—159— 


DEADLOCK 

She  wanted  to  explain  that  she  used  to  read  novels 
but  could  not  get  interested  in  them  after  Emerson. 
They  showed  only  one  side  of  people,  the  outside; 
if  they  showed  them  alone,  it  was  only  to  explain 
what  they  felt  about  other  people.  Then  he  would 
say  Levin,  Levin.  But  she  could  not  attend  to  all 
this.  What  she  had  meant  to  say  in  the  beginning, 
she  now  explained,  was  that  her  German,  neglected 
so  long,  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  whilst,  most  incon- 
veniently, her  reputation  for  knowing  German  grew 
larger  and  larger.  Mr.  Wilson  might  have  said 
that.  .  .  . 

"The  Lager  is  doing  you  immensely  much 
good." 

Speech  did  something  to  things;  set  them  in  a 
mould  that  was  apt  to  come  up  again;  repeated,  it 
would  be  dead;  but  perhaps  one  need  never  repeat 
oneself?  To  say  the  same  things  to  different  people 
would  give  them  a  sort  of  fresh  life;  but  there  would 
be  death  in  oneself  as  one  spoke.  Perhaps  the  same 
thing  could  be  said  over  and  over  again,  with  other 
things  with  it,  so  that  it  had  a  different  shape,  sang  a 
different  song  and  laughed  all  round  itself  in  amongst 
different  things. 

Intoxication  ...  a  permanent  intoxication  in  and 
out  amongst  life,  all  the  time  with  an  increasing  store 
of  good  ideas  about  things;  in  time,  about  everything. 
A  slight  intoxication  began  it,  making  it  possible  to 
look  at  things  from  a  distance,  in  separate  wholes  and 
make  discoveries  about  them.  It  was  being  some- 
where else,  and  suddenly  looking  up,  out  of  com- 
pletion, at  distant  things,  that  brought  their  meanings 
and  the  right  words. 

— 160 — 


DEADLOCK 

"But  you  must  at  once  finish.     They  are  closing. 
It  is  now  midnight." 

It  did  not  matter.  Nothing  was  at  an  end.  Noth- 
ing would  ever  come  to  an  end  again.  .  .  .  She 
passed,  talking  emphatically,  out  into  the  wide  dimly- 
lit  sky-filled  east-end  street,  and  walked  unconscious  of 
fatigue,  carrying  Mr.  Shatov  along  at  his  swiftest 
plunge,  mile  after  mile,  in  a  straight  line  westward 
along  the  opening  avenue  of  her  new  permanent  free- 
dom from  occasions.  From  detail  to  detail,  snatched 
swiftly  by  the  slenderest  thread  of  coherence,  she 
passed  in  easy  emphatic  talk,  covering  the  bright  end- 
less prospect  of  her  contemplation,  her  voice  alive, 
thrilling  with  joyful  gratitude,  quivering  now  and  again 
as  it  moved,  possessed  and  controlled  by  the  first  faint 
dawning  apprehension  of  some  universal  password, 
from  one  bright  tumultuously  branching  thing  to 
another,  with  a  gratitude  that  poured  itself  out  within 
her  in  a  rain  of  tears.  Mr.  Shatov  followed  her 
swift  migrations  with  solid  responsive  animation;  he 
seemed  for  the  first  time  to  find  no  single  thing  to 
object  to  or  correct;  even  restatement  was  absent,  and 
presently  he  began  to  sing.   .  .   . 

"It  is  a  Russian  song  with  words  of  Poushkin  and 
music  of  Rubinstein.  Ah  but  it  requires  Chaliapin. 
A  most  profound  bass.  There  is  nothing  in  singing 
so  profoundly  moving  as  pure  basso;  you  should  hear 
him.     He  stands  alone  in  Europe." 

The  thronging  golden  multitudes  moved  to  the 
tones  of  this  great  Russian  voice,  the  deepest  in  the 
world,  singing  out  across  Europe  from  beyond  Ger- 
many. With  faltering  steps,  just  begun,  whilst  now 
and    for    ever    she    passionately   brooded    on    distant 

—161— 


DEADLOCK 

things,  she  was  one  of  this  elect  shining  army  .  .  . 
"wandering  amongst  the  mountains,  the  highest  notes 
if  they  leapt  up  pure  and  free,  in  soprano,  touch  the 
sky." 

"That  is  true.  But  in  concerts,  the  strength  and 
most  profound  moving  quality  come  from  the  bass. 
Ah  you  should  hear  a  Russian  male  choir.  There  is 
not  in  Europe  such  strength  and  flexibility  and  most 
particularly  such  marvel  of  unanimity,  making  one 
single  movement  of  phrase  in  all  these  many  voices 
together.  There  is  singing  in  the  great  Russian 
churches,  all  colourful  and  with  a  splendour  of  ornate 
decoration,  singing  that  the  most  infidel  could  not 
hear  unmoved." 

The  Russian  voice  was  melancholy  poetry  in  itself; 
somewhere  within  the  shapely  rough  strength  of  the 
words,  was  a  pleading  tender  melancholy. 

The  Bloomsbury  Squares  were  changed.  It  was 
like  seeing  them  for  the  first  time;  before  they  had 
taken  hold;  and  for  the  last  time,  for  their  spell  was 
turning  into  memory.  Already  they  were  clearly  seen 
backgrounds  of  which  in  the  cold  winter  moonlight 
she  could,  as  her  feet,  set  in  a  pathway  that  spread 
throughout  the  world,  swiftly  measured  them,  coolly 
observe  the  varying  proportions  and  character. 
Offence  was  removed  from  the  tones  of  visitors  who 
had  in  the  past,  in  her  dumb  outraged  presence,  taken 
lightly  upon  their  lips  the  sacred  names.  Within  them 
the  echo  of  her  song  mingled  with  the  silent  echoes 
of  the  footfalls  and  voices  of  these  enchanted  busy 
passengers. 


— 162- 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  not  only  that  it  was  her  own  perhaps 
altogether  ignorant  and  lazy  and  selfish  way  of 
reading  everything  so  that  she  grasped  only  the 
sound  and  the  character  of  the  words  and  the 
arrangement  of  the  sentences,  and  only  sometimeis 
a  long  time  afterwards,  and  with  once  read  books 
never,  anything,  except  in  books  on  philosophy,  of 
the  author's  meaning  .  .  .  but  always  the  author; 
in  the  first  few  lines;  and  after  that,  wanting  to  change 
him  and  break  up  his  shape  or  going  about  for  days 
thinking  everything  in  his  shape.   .   .   . 

It  was  that  there  was  nothing  there.  If  there 
had  been  anything,  reading  so  attentively,  such  an 
odd  subject  as  Spanish  literature,  she  would  have 
gathered  some  sort  of  vague  impression.  But  in  all 
the  close  pages  of  cramped  cruel  pointed  hand-writing 
she  had  gleaned  nothing  at  all.  Not  a  single  fact 
or  idea;  only  Mr.  Lahitte;  a  voice  like  an  empty 
balloon.  .  .  .  The  lecture  was  a  fraud.  He  was. 
How  far  did  he  know  this?  Thinking  of  the  audience, 
those  few  who  could  learn  quickly  enough  to  follow 
his  voice,  waiting  and  waiting  for  something  but 
strings  of  superlatives,  the  same  ones  again  and  again, 
until  the  large  hall  became  a  prison  and  the  defiant 
yellow-grey  form  a  tormenter,  and  their  impatience 
and   restlessness   turned   to   hatred   and   despair,    she 

—163— 


DEADLOCK 

pitied  him.  Perhaps  he  had  not  read  Spanish  litera- 
ture. But  he  must  have  consulted  numbers  of  books 
about  it,  and  that  was  much  more  than  most  people  did. 
But  what  could  she  do?  She  glanced  at  her  little 
page  of  notes.  .  .  .  Break  up  sentences.  Use 
participles  instead  of  which.  Vary  adjectives.  Have 
gaps  and  pauses  here  and  there.  Sometimes  begin 
further  off.  What  is  picaresque?  They  had  been 
written  enthusiatically,  seeming  like  inspirations,  in 
the  first  pages,  before  she  had  discovered  the  whole 
of  the  nothingness.  Now  they  were  only  alterations 
that  were  not  worth  making;  helping  an  imposition 
and  being  paid  for  it.   .  .   . 

Stopford  Brooke  .  .  .  lecturing  on  Browning 
.  .  .  blissful  moonface  with  a  fringe  of  white  hair, 
talking  and  talking,  like  song  and  prayer  and  politics, 
the  past  and  the  present  showing  together.  Browning 
at  the  centre  of  life  and  outside  it  all  over  the  world, 
and  seeing  forward  into  the  future.  Perfect  quo- 
tations, short  and  long,  and  the  end  with  the  long 
description  of  Pompilia  .  .  .  rising  and  spreading 
and  ceasing,  not  ending  .  .  .  standing  out  alive  in 
the  midst  of  a  world  still  shaped  by  the  same  truths 
going  on  and  on.  "A  marvellous  piece  of  analysis." 
He  had  been  waiting  to  say  that  to  the  other  young 
man. 

Introduce  their  philosophies  of  life,  if  any,  she 
wrote;  introduce  quotations.  But  there  was  no  time; 
quotations  would  have  to  be  translated.  Nothing 
could  be  done.  The  disaster  was  completely  arranged. 
There  was  no  responsibility.  She  gathered  the 
accepted  pages  neatly  together  and  began  pencilling 
In  Improvements. 

— 164 — 


DEADLOCK 

.  .  .  The  pencilled  sentences  made  a  pleasant  wan- 
dering decoration.  The  earlier  ones  were  forgotten 
and  unfamiliar.  Re-read  now,  they  surprised  her. 
How  had  she  thought  of  them?  She  had  not  thought 
of  them.  She  had  been  closely  following  something, 
and  they  had  come,  quietly,  in  the  midst  of  engross- 
ment; but  they  were  like  a  photograph,  funny  in  their 
absurd  likeness,  set  there  side  by  side  with  the  pho- 
tograph of  Mr.  Lahitte.  They  were  alive,  gravely, 
after  the  manner  of  her  graver  self.  It  was  a  curious 
marvel,  a  revelation  irrevocably  put  down,  reflecting 
a  certain  sort  of  character  .  .  .  more  oneself 
than  anything  that  could  be  done  socially,  together 
with  others,  and  yet  not  herself  at  all,  but  some- 
thing mysterious,  drawn  uncalculatingly  from  some 
fund  of  common  consent,  part  of  a  separate  impersonal 
life  she  had  now  unconsciously  confessed  herself  as 
sharing.  She  remained  bent  motionless  in  the  atti- 
tude of  writing,  to  discover  the  quality  of  her  strange 
state.  The  morning  was  raw  with  dense  fog;  at  her 
Wimpole  Street  ledgers  she  would  by  this  time  have 
been  cramped  with  cold;  but  she  felt  warm  and  tingling 
with  life  as  if  she  had  been  dancing,  or  for  a  long 
while  in  happy  social  contact;  yet  so  differently; 
deeply  and  serenely  alive  and  without  the  blank  anxious 
looking  for  the  continuance  of  social  excitement. 
This  something  would  continue,  It  was  in  herself, 
independently.  It  was  as  if  there  were  some  one 
with  her  in  the  room,  peopling  her  solitude  and 
bringing  close  around  her  all  her  past  solitudes,  as 
if  It  were  their  secret.  They  greeted  her;  justified. 
Never  again,  so  long  as  she  could  sit  at  work  and 
lose  herself  to  awake  with  the  season  forgotten  and 

— 165 — 


DEADLOCK 

all  the  circumstances  of  her  life  coming  back  fresh 
leaping,  as  if  narrated  from  the  fascinating  life  of 
some  one  else,  would  they  puzzle  or  reproach  her. 

She  drew  her  first  page  of  general  suggestions 
written  so  long  ago  that  they  already  seemed  to 
belong  to  some  younger  self,  and  copied  them  in  ink. 
The  sound  of  the  pen  shattered  the  silence  like  sudden 
speech.  She  listened  entranced.  The  little  strange 
sound  was  the  living  voice  of  the  brooding  presence. 
She  copied  each  phrase  in  a  shape  that  set  them  like 
a  poem  in  the  middle  of  the  page,  with  even  spaces 
between  a  wide  uniform  margin;  not  quite  in  the 
middle;  the  lower  margin  was  wider  than  the  upper; 
the  poem  wanted  another  line.  She  turned  to  the 
manuscript  listening  intently  to  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Lahitte  pouring  forth  his  sentences,  and  with  a  joyous 
rush  penetrated  the  secret  of  its  style.  It  was  artificial. 
There  was  the  last  line  of  the  poem  summing  up  all 
the  rest.  Avoid,  she  wrote,  searching;  some  word 
was  coming;  it  was  in  her  mind,  muffled,  almost  clear; 
avoid — it  flashed  through  and  away,  just  missed. 
She  recalled  sentences  that  had  filled  her  with  hopeless 
fury,  examining  them  curiously,  without  anger.  Avoid 
ornate  alias.  So  that  was  it!  Just  those  few  min- 
utes glancing  through  the  pages  standing  by  the  table 
while  the  patient  talked  about  her  jolly,  noisy,  healthy, 
thoroughly  wicked  little  kid,  and  now  remembering 
every  point  he  had  made  .  .  .  extraordinary.  But 
this  was  life!  These  strange  unconsciously  noticed 
things,  living  on  in  one,  coming  together  at  the  right 
moment,  a  part  of  a  reality. 

Rising  from  the  table  she  found  her  room  strange, 
the  new   room  she   had   entered   on   the   day  of  her 

—166— 


DEADLOCK 

arrival.  She  remembered  drawing  the  cover  from 
the  table  by  the  window  and  finding  the  ink-stains. 
There  they  were  in  the  warm  bright  circle  of  mid- 
morning  lamplight,  showing  between  the  scattered 
papers.  The  years  that  had  passed  were  a  single 
short  interval  leading  to  the  restoration  of  that  first 
moment.  Everything  they  contained  centred  there; 
her  passage  through  them,  the  desperate  graspings 
and  droppings,  had  been  a  coming  back.  Nothing 
would  matter  now  that  the  paper-scattered  lamp- 
lit  circle  was  established  as  the  centre  of  life.  Every- 
thing would  be  an  everlastingly  various  joyful  coming 
back.  Held  up  by  this  secret  place,  drawing  her 
energy  from  it,  any  sort  of  life  would  do  that  left 
this  room  and  its  little  table  free  and  untouched. 


■167- 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  spell  of  the  ink-stained  table  had  survived 
the  night.  Moving  about,  preparing  for  today, 
she  turned  continually  towards  the  window-space, 
as  to  an  actual  presence,  and  was  answered  by  the 
rising  within  her  of  a  tide  of  serenity,  driving  her 
forward  in  a  stupor  of  confidence,  impervious  to  strain 
and  pain.  It  was  as  if  she  had  entered  a  companion- 
ship that  now  spread  like  a  shield  between  her  and  the 
life  she  had  so  far  dealt  with  unaided,   .   .   . 

The  week  of  working  days,  standing  between  her 
and  next  Sunday's  opportunity,  was  a  small  space  that 
would  pass  in  a  dream;  the  scattered  variously-develop- 
ing interests  of  life  outside  Wimpole  Street  changed, 
under  her  eyes,  from  separate  bewildering  competi- 
tively attractive  scraps  of  life,  to  pleasantly  related 
resources,  permitted  distractions  from  an  engrossment 
so  secure  that  she  could,  without  fear  of  loss,  move 
away  and  forget  it. 

She  felt  eager  to  jest.  Ranged  with  her  friends 
she  saw  their  view  of  her  own  perpetually  halting 
scrupulousness  and  marvelled  at  their  patient  loyalty. 
She  shared  the  exasperated  intolerance  of  people  who 
disliked  her.  ...  It  could  be  disarmed  ...  by 
fresh,  surprising  handling.  .  .  .  Because,  she  asked 
herself  scornfully  as  she  opened  the  door  to  go  down- 

—168— 


DEADLOCK 

stairs,  she  had  corrected  Mr.  Lahitte's  unspeakable 
lecture?  No.  Sitting  over  there,  forgetting,  she  had 
let  go  .  .  .  and  found  something  .  .  .  and  waking 
again  had  seen  distant  things  in  their  right  propor- 
tions. But  leaving  go,  not  going  through  life  clenched, 
would  mean  losing  oneself,  passing  through,  not 
driving  in,  ceasing  to  affect  and  be  affected.  But  the 
forgetfulness  was  itself  a  more  real  life,  if  it  made 
life  disappear  and  then  show  only  as  a  manageable 
space  and  at  last  only  as  an  indifferent  distance  .  .  . 
a  game  to  be  played,  or  even  not  played.  ...  It 
meant  putting  life  and  people  second;  only  entering 
life  to  come  back  again,  always.  This  new  joy  of 
going  into  life,  the  new  beauty,  on  everything,  was  the 
certainty  of  coming  back.   .   .   . 

She  was  forgetting  something  important  to  the 
day;  the  little  volume  of  stories  for  her  coat  pocket. 
Anxiety  at  her  probable  lateness  tried  to  invade  her 
as  she  made  her  hurried  search.  She  beat  it  back 
and  departed  indifferently,  shutting  the  door  of  a 
seedy  room  In  a  cheap  boarding-house,  neither  hers 
nor  another's,  a  lodger's  passing  abode,  but  holding 
a  little  table  that  was  herself,  alive  with  her  life,  and 
whose  image  sprang,  set  for  the  day,  centrally  into 
the  background  of  her  thoughts  as  she  ran  wondering 
if  there  were  time  for  breakfast,  down  to  the  dining- 
room.  St.  Pancras  clock  struck  nine  as  she  poured 
out  her  tea.  Mr.  Shatov  followed  up  his  greeting 
with  an  immediate  plunge  into  unfamiliar  speech 
which  she  realized,  in  the  midst  of  her  wonderment 
over  Mr.  Lahitte's  presence  at  early  breakfast,  was 
addressed  to  herself.  She  responded  absently,  stand- 
ing at  the  tea-tray  with  her  toast. 

— 169 — 


DEADLOCK 

"You  do  not  take  your  fish?  Ah,  it  is  a  pity.  It 
is  true  it  has  stood  since  half-nine." 

"Asseyez-vous,  mademoiselle.  I  find;  the  break- 
fast hour;  charming.  At  this  hour  one  always  is,  or 
should  be;  gay." 

"Mps;  if  there  is  time;  yes,  Sunday  breakfast." 

"Still  you  are  gay.  That  is  good.  We  will  not 
allow  philosophy;  to  darken;  these  most  happy  few 
moments." 

"There  are  certain  limits  to  cheerfulness,"  bellowed 
Mr.  Shatov.  They  had  had  some  mighty  collision. 
She  glanced  round. 

"None;  within  the  purview  of  my  modest  intelli- 
gence; none.  Always  would  I  rather  be;  a  cheerful 
coal-heaver;  than  a  philosopher  who  is  learned,  dull, 
and  more  depressing  than  the  bise  du  nord." 

That  was  meant  for  Mr.  Shatov!  The  pale 
sensitive  features  were  quivering  in  control  .  .  .  her 
fury  changed  to  joy  as  she  leapt  between  them  murmur- 
ing reflectively  out  across  the  table  that  she  agreed, 
but  had  met  many  depressing  coal-heavers  and  knew 
nothing  about  philosophers  dull  or  otherwise.  In  the 
ensuing  comfortable  dead  silence  she  wandered  away 
marvelling  at  her  eloquence.  .  .  .  Cats  said  that 
sort  of  thing,  with  disarming  smiles.  Was  that  what 
was  called  sarcasm?  How  fearfully  funny.  She  had 
been  sarcastic.  To  a  Frenchman.  Perhaps  she  had 
learned  it  from  him.  Mr.  Shatov  overtook  her  as 
she  was  getting  on  to  a  'bus  at  the  corner. 

"You  do  not  go  walkingly?"  he  bellowed  from  the 
pavement.  Poor  little  man;  left  there  with  his  day 
and  his  loneliness  till  six  o'clock. 

—  170 — 


DEADLOCK 

"All  right,"  she  said  jumping  off,  "we'll  walk.  I'll 
be  late.     I  don't  mind." 

They  swept  quickly  along,  looking  ahead  in  silence. 
Presently  he  began  to  sing.  Miriam  dropped  her  eyes 
to  the  pavement,  listening.  How  unconsciously  wise 
he  was.  How  awful  it  would  have  been  if  she  had 
gone  on  the  omnibus.  Here  he  was  safe,  healing  and 
forgetting.  There  was  some  truth  in  the  Frenchman's 
judgment.  It  wasn't  that  he  was  a  dull  philosopher. 
Lahitte  was  utterly  incapable  of  measuring  his  big  sun- 
lit mind;  but  there  was  something,  in  his  manner,  or 
bearing,  something  that  many  people  would  not  like, 
an  absence  of  gaiety;  it  was  true,  the  Frenchman's 
quick  eye  had  fastened  on  it.  Who  wanted  gaiety? 
There  was  a  deep  joyfulness  in  his  booming  song  that 
was  more  than  gaiety.  His  rich  dark  vitality  chal- 
lenged the  EngHsh  air  as  he  plunged  along,  beard  first, 
without  thoughts,  his  eyebrows  raised  in  the  effort  of 
his  eager  singing.  He  was  quite  unaware  that  there 
was  no  room  for  singing  more  than  below  one's  breath, 
however  quickly  one  walked,  in  the  Euston  Road  in  the 
morning. 

She  disposed  herself  to  walk  unconcernedly  past  the 
row  of  lounging  overalled  figures.  Sullen  hostile  star- 
ing would  not  satisfy  them  this  morning.  The  song 
would  rouse  them  to  some  open  demonstration.  They 
were  endless;  muttering  motionlessly  to  each  other  in 
their  immovable  lounging.  Surely  he  must  feel  them. 
"Go  'ome,"  she  heard,  away  behind.  .  .  .  "Bloom- 
ing foreigner;"  close  by,  the  tall  lean  swarthy  fellow, 
with  the  handsome  grubby  face.  That  he  must  have 
heard.     She   fancied  his   song   recoiled,   and  wheeled 

—171— 


DEADLOCK 

sharply  back,  confronting  the  speaker,  who  had  just 
spat  into  the  middle  of  the  pavement. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  a  foreigner,  and  he  is  my 
friend.  What  do  you  mean?"  The  man's  gazing 
face  was  broken  up  into  embarrassed  awkward  youth. 
Mr.  Shatov  was  safely  ahead.  She  waited,  her  eyes 
on  the  black-rimmed  expressionless  blue  of  the  eyes 
staring  from  above  a  rising  flush.  In  a  moment  she 
would  say,  it  is  abominable  and  simply  disgraceful, 
and  sweep  away  and  never  come  up  this  side  of  the 
road  again.  A  little  man  was  speaking  at  her  side, 
his  cap  in  his  hand.  They  were  all  moving  and  staring. 
"Excuse  me  miss,"  he  began  again  in  a  quiet,  thick, 
hurrying  voice,  as  she  turned  to  him.  "Miss,  we 
know  the  sight  of  you  going  up  and  down.  Miss,  he 
ain't  good  enough  forya." 

"Oh,"  said  Miriam,  the  sky  falling  about  her.  She 
lingered  a  moment  speechless,  looking  at  no  one, 
sweeping  over  them  a  general  disclaiming  smile,  hoping 
she  told  them  how  mistaken  they  all  were  and  how 
nice  she  thought  them,  she  hurried  away  to  meet  Mr. 
Shatov  waiting  a  few  yards  ofli.  The  darlings.  In 
all  these  years  of  invisible  going  up  and  down.   .  .  . 

"Well?"  he  laughed,  "what  is  this?" 

"British  workmen.     I've  been  lecturing  them." 

"On  what?" 

"In  general.  Telling  them  what  I  think." 
"Excellent,  You  will  yet  be  a  socialist."  They 
walked  on,  to  the  sound  of  his  resumed  singing.  Pres- 
ently the  turning  into  Wimpole  Street  was  in  sight. 
His  singing  must  end.  Dipping  at  a  venture  she 
stumbled  upon  material  for  his  arrest. 

— 172 — 


DEADLOCK 

"It  is  nay-cessary;  deere  bruthren" ;  she  intoned 
dismally  in  a  clear  interval,  "to  obtain;  the  mAhstery; 
o-ver-the  File;  bhuddy." 

"What?  What?"  he  gurgled  delightedly,  slacken- 
ing his  pace.     "Please  say  this  once  more." 

Summoning  the  forgotten  figure,  straining  out  over 
the  edge  of  the  pulpit  she  saw  that  there  was  more 
than  the  shape  and  sound  of  his  abruptly  ending  whine. 
She  saw  the  incident  from  Mr.  Shatov's  point  of  view 
and  stood  still  to  laugh  his  laugh;  but  it  was  not  her 
kind  of  joke. 

"It  was  in  a  University  church,  presided  over  by  a 
man  they  all  say  has  a  European  reputation;  it  was 
in  Lent;  this  other  man  was  a  visitor,  for  Lent.  That 
was  the  beginning  of  his  sermon.  He  began  at  once, 
with  a  yell,  flinging  half  out  of  the  pulpit,  the  ugliest 
person  I  have  ever  seen." 

"Hoh,"  shouted  Mr.  Shatov  from  the  midst  of 
immense  gusts  of  laughter,  "that  is  a  most  supreme 
instance  of  unconscious  ironic  commentary.  iBut 
really,  please  you  shall  say  this  to  me  once  more." 

If  she  said,  you  know  he  was  quite  sincere,  the 
story  would  be  spoiled.  This  was  the  kind  of  story 
popular  people  told.  To  be  amusing  must  mean 
always  to  be  not  quite  truthful.  But  the  sound.  She 
was  longing  to  hear  it  again.  Turning  to  face  the 
way  they  had  come,  she  gave  herself  up  to  howling 
the  exhortation  down  the  empty  park-flanked  vista. 

"It  is  a  chef  d'oeuvre,"  he  sighed. 

He  ought  not  to  be  here  she  irritably  told  herself, 
emerging  as  they  turned  and  took  the  few  steps  to 
her  street,  tired  and  scattered  and  hopelessly  late,  into 
the  forgotten  chill  of  her  day.     It  was  all  very  well 

—173— 


DEADLOCK 

for  him  with  his  freedom  and  leisure  to  begin  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  with  things  that  belonged  to  the 
end  of  the  day.  .  .  .  She  took  swift  distracted  leave 
of  him  at  the  corner  and  hurried  along  the  length 
of  the  few  houses  to  her  destination.  Turning  re- 
morsefully at  the  doorstep  to  smile  her  farewell,  she 
saw  the  hurrying  form  of  Mr.  Hancock  crossing  the 
road  with  grave  appraising  glance  upon  the  strange 
figure  bowing  towards  her  bareheaded  in  the  wind 
from  the  top  of  the  street.  He  had  seen  her  loitering, 
standing  still,  had  heard  her  howls.  Mercifully  the 
door  opened  behind  her,  and  she  fled  within  .  .  .  the 
corner  of  the  very  street  that  made  him,  more  than 
any  other  street,  look  foreign,  and,  in  the  distance, 
disgraceful.   .   .   . 

For  days  she  read  the  first  two  stories  in  the  little 
book,  carrying  it  about  with  her,  uneasy  amongst  her 
letters  and  ledgers  unless  it  were  in  sight.  The  project 
of  translation  vanished  in  an  entranced  consideration 
at  close  quarters  of  some  strange  quality  coming  each 
time  from  the  printed  page.  She  could  not  seize  or 
name  it  Both  stories  were  sad,  with  an  unmitigated 
relentless  sadness,  casting  a  shadow  over  the  spectacle 
of  life.  But  some  spell  in  their  weaving,  something 
abrupt  and  strangely  alive,  remaining  alive,  in  the  text, 
made  a  beauty  that  outlived  the  sadness.  They  were 
beautiful.  English  people  would  not  think  so.  They 
would  only  see  tragedy  of  a  kind  that  did  not  occur 
in  the  society  they  knew.  They  would  consider 
Andrayeff  a  morbid  foreigner,  and  a  liking  for  the 
stories  an  unhealthy  pose.  Very  well.  It  was  an 
unhealthy  pose.  The  strange  beauty  in  the  well 
known  sentences  that  yet  were  every  time  fresh  and 

—174— 


DEADLOCK 

surprising,  was  an  unshareable  secret.  Meanwhile 
the  presence  of  the  little  book  exorcised  the  every- 
day sense  of  the  winding  off  of  days  in  an  elaborate 
unchanging  circle  of  toil. 

To  Michael  Shatov  she  poured  out  incoherent  en- 
thusiasmw  "Translate,  tran$late,"  he  cried;  and 
when  she  assured  him  that  no  one  would  want  to  read, 
he  said,  each  time,  "no  matter;  this  work  will  be  good 
for  you."  But  when  at  last  suddenly  in  the  middle 
of  a  busy  morning,  she  began  turning  into  rounded 
English  words  the  thorny  German  text,  she  eluded 
his  enquiries  and  hid  the  book  and  all  signs  of  her  work 
even  from  herself.  Writing  she  forgot,  and  did  not 
see  the  pages.  The  moment  she  saw  them,  there  was 
a  sort  of  half-shame  in  their  exposure,  even  to  the  light 
of  day.  And  always  in  transcribing  them  a  sense  of 
guilt.  Not,  she  was  sure,  a  conviction  of  mis-spending 
her  employer's  time.  Had  not  they  agreed  in  response 
to  her  graceless  demands  in  the  course  of  that 
first  realization  of  the  undeveloping  nature  of  her 
employments,  that  she  should  use  chance  intervals  of 
leisure  on  work  of  her  own?  But  even  abusing  this 
privilege,  writing  sudden  long  absorbing  letters  in  the 
best  part  of  the  morning  with  urgent  business  waiting 
all  round  her,  had  brought  no  feeling  of  guilt;  only 
a  bright  enclosing  sense  of  dissipation;  a  solrt  of 
spreading,  to  be  justified  by  the  shortness  of  her  leisure, 
of  its  wild  free  quality  over  a  part  of  the  too-long  day. 
It  was  in  some  way  from  the  work  itself  that  this 
strange  gnawing  accusation  came,  and  as  strangely, 
each  time  she  had  fairly  begun,  there  came,  driving 
out  the  sense  of  guilt,  an  overwhelming  urgency;  as 
if  she  were  running  a  race. 

—175— 


DEADLOCK 

Presently  everything  in  her  life  existed  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  increasing  bunch  of  pencilled  half- 
sheets  distributed  between  the  leaves  of  her  roomy 
blotter.  She  thanked  her  circumstances,  into  whose 
shape  this  secret  adventure  had  stolen  unobserved 
and  sunk,  leaving  the  surface  unchanged,  and  finding, 
ready  for  its  sustaining,  an  energy  her  daily  work 
had  never  tapped,  from  the  depth  of  her  heart.  In 
the  evenings  she  put  away  the  thought  of  her  pages 
lest  she  could  find  herself  speaking  of  them  to  Mr. 
Shatov. 

But  they  would  arrive  suddenly  in  her  mind, 
thrilling  her  into  animation,  lighting  up  some  remote 
part  of  her  consciousness  from  which  would  come 
pell-mell,  emphatic  and  incoherently  eloquent,  state- 
ments to  which  she  listened  eagerly.  Mr.  Shatov,  too, 
reduced  to  a  strangely  silenced  listener,  and  dropping 
presently  off  along  some  single  side  issue,  she  would 
be  driven  back  by  the  sheer  pain  of  the  effort  of 
contraction,  and  would  impatiently  bring  the  sitting 
to  an  end  and  seek  solitude.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
confronted  by  some  deeper  convinced  self  who  did, 
unknown  to  her,  take  sides  on  things,  both  sides, 
with  equal  emphasis,  impartially,  but  with  a  passion 
that  left  her  in  an  entrancement  of  longing  to  dis- 
cover the  secret  of  its  nature.  For  the  rest  of  the 
evening  this  strange  self  seemed  to  hover  about  her, 
holding  her  in  a  serenity  undisturbed  by  reflection. 

Sometimes  the  memory  of  her  work  would  leap 
out  when  a  conversation  was  flagging,  and  lift  her 
as  she  sat  inert,  to  a  distance  whence  fihe  dulled 
expiring  thread  showed  suddenly  glowing,  looping 
forward   into   an  endless  bright  pattern   interminably 

— 176 — 


DEADLOCK 

animated  by  the  changing  lights  of  fresh  inflowing 
thoughts.  During  the  engrossing  Incidents  of  her 
day's  work  she  forgot  them  completely,  but  In  every 
interval  they  were  there;  or  not  there;  she  had 
dreamed  them.   .   .   . 

With  each  fresh  attack  on  the  text,  the  sense  of 
guilt  grew  stronger;  falling  upon  her  the  moment, 
having  read  the  page  of  German,  she  set  to  work  to 
apply  the  discoveries  she  had  made.  It  was  as  if 
these  discoveries  were  the  winning,  through  some 
inborn  trick  of  intelligence  not  her  own  by  right  of 
any  process  of  application  or  of  discipline,  of  an 
unfair  advantage.  She  sought  within  her  for  a 
memory  that  might  explain  the  acquisition  of  the 
right  of  escape  into  this  life  within,  outside,  securely 
away  from,  the  life  of  evierlyday.  The  school 
memories  that  revived  in  her  dealings  with  her  sen- 
tences were  the  best,  the  most  secret  and  the  happiest, 
the  strands  where  the  struggle  to  acquire  had  been 
all  a  painless  interested  adventuring.  The  use  of 
this  strange  faculty,  so  swift  in  discovery,  so  relentless 
in  criticism,  giving  birth,  as  one  by  one  the  motley 
of  truths  urging  its  blind  movements,  came  recogniz- 
ably Into  view,  to  such  a  fascinating  game  of  acceptance 
and  fresh  trial,  produced  in  the  long  run  when  the 
full  balance  was  struck,  an  overweight  of  joy  bought 
without  price. 

There  was  no  longer  unalleviated  pain  in  the  first 
attack  on  a  fresh  stretch  of  the  text.  The  knowl- 
edge that  it  could  by  three  stages,  laborious  but 
unchanging  and  certain  In  their  operation,  reach  a 
life  of  Its  own,  the  same  in  its  whole  effect,  and  yet 
in  each   detail  so   different  to   the   original,   radiated 

—177— 


DEADLOCK 

joy  through  the  whole  slow  process.  It  was  such  a 
glad  adventure,  to  get  down  on  the  page  with  a  blunt 
stump  of  pencil  in  quivering  swift  thrilled  fingers 
the  whole  unwieldy  literal  presentation,  to  contem- 
plate, plunging  thus  roughshod  from  language,  to 
language,  the  strange  lights  shed  in  turn  upon  each, 
the  revelation  of  mutually  enclosed  inexpandible 
meanings,  insoluable  antagonisms  of  thought  and 
experience,  flowing  upon  the  surface  of  a  stream 
where  both  were  one;  to  see,  through  the  shapeless 
mass  the  approaching  miracle  of  shape  and  meaning. 

The  vast  entertainment  of  this  first  headlong 
;-amble  down  the  page  left  an  enlivenment  with  which 
to  face  the  dark  length  of  the  second  journey,  its 
separate  single  efforts  of  concentration,  the  recurring 
conviction  of  the  insuperability  of  barriers,  the  in- 
creasing list  of  discarded  attempts,  the  intervals  of 
hours  of  interruption,  teased  by  problems  that  dis- 
solved into  meaninglessness,  and  emerged  more  than 
ever  densely  obstructive,  the  sudden  almost  ironically 
cheerful  simultaneous  arrival  of  several  passable 
solutions;  the  temptation  to  use  them,  driven  off  by 
the  wretchedness  accompanying  the  experiment  of 
placing  them  even  in  imagination  upon  the  page,  and 
at  last  the  snap  of  relinquishment,  the  plunge  down 
into  oblivion  of  everything  but  the  object  of  con- 
templation, perhaps  ill-sustained  and  fruitful  only  of 
a  fury  of  irritated  exhaustion,  postponing  further 
effort,  or  through  the  entertaining  distraction  of  a 
sudden  irrelevant  play  of  light,  turned  to  an  out- 
branching  series  of  mental  escapades,  leading,  on 
emergence,  to  a  hurried  scribbling,  on  fresh  pages, 
of    statements   which    proved   when   read   later  with 

—178— 


DEADLOCK 

clues  and  links  forgotten,  unintelligible;  but  leading 
always,  whether  directly  in  one  swift  movement  of 
seizure,  or  only  at  the  end  of  protracted  divings,  to 
the  return,  with  the  shining  fragment,  whose  safe 
placing  within  the  text  made  the  pages,  gathered  up 
In  an  energy  flowing  forward  transformingly  through 
the  interval,  towards  the  next  opportunity  of  attack, 
electric  within  her  hands. 

The  serene  third  passage,  the  original  banished  in 
the  comforting  certainty  that  the  whole  of  it  was 
represented,  the  freedom  to  handle  until  the  jagged 
parts  were  wrought  into  a  pliable  whole,  relieved 
the  pressure  of  the  haunting  sense  of  trespass,  and 
when  all  was  complete  it  vanished  into  peace  and  a 
strange  unimpatient  curiosity  and  interest.  She 
read  from  an  immense  distance.  The  story  was 
turned  away  from  her  towards  people  who  were 
waiting  to  read  and  share  what  she  felt  as  she  read. 
It  was  no  longer  even  partly  hers;  yet  the  thing  that 
held  it  together  in  its  English  dress  was  herself,  it  had 
her  expression,  as  a  portrait  would  have,  so  that  by 
no  one  In  her  sight  or  within  range  of  any  chance 
meeting  with  herself  might  it  ever  be  contemplated. 
And  for  herself  it  was  changed.  Coming  between 
her  and  the  immediate  grasp  of  the  text  were  stirring 
memories;  the  history  of  her  labour  was  written 
between  the  lines;  and  strangely,  moving  within  the 
whole,  was  the  record  of  the  months  since  Christmas. 
On  every  page  a  day  or  a  group  of  days.  It  was 
a  diary.  .  .  .  Within  it  were  incidents  that  for  a 
while  had  dimmed  the  whole  fabric  to  indifi^erence. 
And  passages  stood  out,  recalling,  together  with 
the  memory   of  overcoming  their  difficulty,   the   dis- 

—179— 


DEADLOCK 

solution  of  annoyances,  the  surprised  arrival  on  the 
far  side  of  overwhelming  angers.   .   .   . 

The  second  story  lay  untouched,  wrapt  in  its 
magic.  Contemplating  the  way,  with  its  difference, 
it  enhanced  the  first  and  was  enhanced  by  it,  she 
longed  to  see  the  two  side  by  side  and  found,  while 
she  hesitated  before  the  slow  scattering  process  of 
translation,  a  third  that  set  her  headlong  at  work 
towards  the  perfect  finished  group.  There  was  no 
weariness  in  this  second  stretch  of  labour.  Behind 
her  lay  the  first  story,  a  rampart,  of  achievement  and 
promise,  and  ahead,  calling  her  on,  the  one  that  was 
yet  to  be  attempted,  difficult  and  strange,  a  little  thread 
of  story  upon  a  background  of  dark  thoughts,  like 
a  voice  heard  through  a  storm.  Even  the  heaviest 
parts  of  the  afternoon  could  be  used,  in  an  engrossed 
forgetfulness  of  time  and  place.  Time  pressed. 
The  year  was  widening  and  lifting  too  rapidly  towards 
the  heights  of  June  when  everything  but  the  green 
world,  fresh  gleaming  in  parks  and  squares  through 
the  London  swelter,  sweeping  with  the  tones  of 
spring  and  summer  mingled  amongst  the  changing 
trees,  towards  September,  would  fade  from  her  grasp 
and  disappear. 


— l8c 


CHAPTER  VI 

WELL.     What  did  he  say?" 
"Oh,  nothing;  he  made  a  great  opportunity." 
He  didn't  like  the  stories." 
"Remarkable !" 

"I  did  it  all  the  wrong  way.  When  I  accepted 
their  invitation  I  wrote  that  I  was  bringing  down 
some  translations  of  the  loveliest  short  stories  I  had 
ever  read."  I  was  suddenly  proud,  in  Lyons,  of  re- 
membering "short  stories"  and  excited  about  having 
something  written  to  show  him  at  last.  The  sentence 
felt  like  an  entry  into  their  set. 

"If  he  did  not  agree  with  this  I  pity  him." 
"I   don't  know  how  it  would  have  been  if  I  had 
said  nothing  at  all."     He  might  have  said  look  here 
this   is   good    stuff.     You   must   do    something   with 
this. 

"I  tell  you  again  this  man  is  superficial." 
"He  said  the  sentiment  was  gross  and  that  they 
were  feeble  in  construction."  Waiting,  in  the  win- 
dow seat,  with  the  large  fresh  light  from  the  sea 
pouring  in  from  behind  across  the  soft  clear  buffs 
and  greens  of  the  room;  weaving  for  Alma,  with  the 
wonder  of  keeping  him  arrested,  alone  in  his  study, 
with  his  eyes  on  her  written  sentences,  a  view  of  the 
London  life  as  eventful,  enviable  leisure;  the  door 
opening  at  last,  the  swift  compact  entry  of  the  little 

—181— 


DEADLOCK 

figure  with  the  sheaf  of  manuscript,  the  sudden  lifting 
jubilance  of  the  light;  the  eager  yielding  to  the 
temptation  to  enhance  the  achievement  by  a  disclaiming 
explanation  of  the  difficult  circumstances,  the  silencing 
minatory  finger — wait,  wait,  you're  taking  it  the 
wrong  way — and  at  last  the  high-pitched,  colourless, 
thinking  voice  in  brief  comprehensive  judgment; 
the  shattering  of  the  bright  scene,  the  end  of  the 
triumphant  visit,  with  a  day  still  to  pass,  going  about 
branded  as  an  admirer  of  poor  stuff. 

"That  is  no  opinion.  It  is  simply  a  literary  fines- 
sing. I  will  tell  you  more.  This  judgment  indicates 
an  immense  blindness.  There  is  in  Andrayeff  a 
directness  and  simplicity  of  feeling  towards  life  that 
is  entirely  lacking  in  this  man." 

"Mm.  Perhaps  the  Russians  are  more  simple; 
less  .   .   .  civilized." 

"Simplicity  and  directness  of  feeling  does  not 
necessarily  indicate  a  less  highly  organized  psycho- 
logical temperament." 

"I  know  what  he  meant.  Andrayeff  does  try  delib- 
erately to  work  on  your  feelings.  I  felt  that  when 
I  was  writing.  But  the  pathos  of  those  little  boys 
and  the  man  with  the  Chinese  mask  is  his  subject. 
What  he  does  is  artistic  exaggeration."  That  is  Art? 
Light  and  shade;  ...  a  "masterly  study"  of  a  little 
boy  .       .    ? 

"Very  well  then.     What  is  the  matter?" 

"No,  but  I'm  just  thinking  the  whole  trouble  is 
that  life  is  not  pathetic.  People  don't  feel  pathetic; 
or  never  altogether  pathetic.  There  is  something 
else;  that's  the  worst  of  novels,  something  that  has 
to  be  left  out.     Tragedy;  curtain.     But  there  never 

—  182— 


DEADLOCK 

is  a  curtain  and  even  if  there  were,  the  astounding 
thing  is  that  there  is  anything  to  let  down  a  curtain 
on;  so  astounding  that  you  can't  feel  really,  com- 
pletely, things  like  'happiness'  or  'tragedy';  they 
are  both  the  same,  a  half-statement.  Everybody  is 
the  same  really,  inside,  under  all  circumstances. 
There's  a  dead-level  of  astounding  .   .   .  something." 

"I  cannot  follow  you  in  all  this.  But  you  may  not 
thus  lightly  deny  tragedy." 

"He  also  said  that  the  translation  was  as  good  as 
it  could  be.  .  .  .  You've  brought  it  off.  That's 
the  way  a  translation  ought  to  be  done.  It's  slick 
and  clean  and  extraordinarily  well  Englished.  .  .  ." 

"Well?     Well?     Are  you  not  satisfied?" 

"Then  he  said  in  a  contemptuous  sort  of  way, 
'you  could  make  from  two  to  three  hundred  a  year 
at  this  sort  of  thing.'  " 

"But  that  is  most  excellent.  You  should  most 
certainly  try  this." 

"'I  don't  believe  it.     He  says  that  kind  of  thing." 

"He  ought  to  know." 

"I  don't  know.  He  said  in  a  large  easy  way  'you'd 
get  seven  or  eight  guineas  apiece  for  these  things, 
and  then  do  them  in  a  book.'  " 

"Well?" 

"Everybody  would  be  doing  it  if  it  were  so  easy." 

"You  are  really  remarkable.  A  good  translation 
is  most  rare;  particularly  a  good  English  translation. 
You  have  seen  these  Tolstoys.  I  have  not  met  in 
German  or  French  anything  so  vile.  It  is  a  whole 
base  trade." 

"The  public  does  not  know.  And  if  these  things 
sell  why  should  publishers  pay  for  good  translations? 

--183- 


DEADLOCK 

It's  like  machine  and  hand-made  embroidery.  It 
does  not  pay  to  do  good  work.  I've  often  heard 
translations  are  badly  paid  and  I  can  quite  understand 
it.  It  could  be  done  in  a  factory  at  an  immense 
pace." 

"You  are  right.  I  have  known  a  group  of  poor 
Russian  students  translate  a  whole  book  in  a  single 
night.  But  you  will  not  find  cynical  vulgarization 
of  literature  anywhere  but  in  England  and  America. 
It  is  indeed  remarkable  to  the  foreigner  the  way  in 
this  country  the  profession  of  letters  has  become  a 
speculation.  Never  before  I  came  here  did  I  meet 
this  idea  of  writing  for  a  living,  in  this  naive  wide- 
spread form.  There  is  something  very  bad  in  it." 
Miriam  surveyed  the  green  vista,  thinking  guiltily  of 
her  envy  and  admiration  of  the  many  young  men  she 
had  met  at  the  Wilsons'  who  were  mysteriously 
"writing"  or  "going  to  write,"  of  her  surprise  and 
disappointment  in  meeting  here  and  there  things  they 
had  written  .  .  .  don't,  Miss  Henderson  .  .  .  don't 
take  up  ...  a  journalistic  career  on  the  strength  of 
being  able  to  write;  as  badly  as  Jenkins.  Editors — 
poor  dears — are  beleaguered,  by  aspiring  relatives. 
She  thought  out  now,  untrammelled  by  the  distraction 
of  listening  to  the  way  he  formed  his  sentences,  the 
meaning  of  these  last  words  ...  it  spread  a  chill 
over  the  wide  stretch  of  sunlit  grass;  in  the  very 
moments  that  were  passing,  the  writing  world  was 
going  actively  on,  the  clever  people  who  had  ideas 
and  style  and  those  others,  determined,  besieging, 
gradually  making  themselves  into  Writers,  indistin- 
guishable by  most  readers,  from  the  others,  sharing, 
even   during  their  dreadful  beginnings,   in   the   social 

—  184— 


DEADLOCK 

distinctions  and  privileges  of  "writers,"  and  all  of 
them,  the  clever  ones  and  the  others,  quite  untroubled 
by  any  sense  of  guilt,  and  making,  when  they  were 
all  together,  a  social  atmosphere  that  was,  in  spite 
of  its  scepticism,  and  its  scorn  of  everyday  life, 
easier  to  breathe  than  any  other.  But  being  bur-i 
dened  with  a  hesitating  sense  of  guilt,  unable  to 
be  really  interested  in  the  things  clever  people  wrote 
about,  being  beguiled  by  gross  sentimentality;  because 
of  its  foreign  dress  and  the  fascination  of  trans- 
forming it,  meant  belonging  o>utstde  the  world  of 
clever  writers,  tried  in  their  balance  and  found  wanting; 
and  cut  off  from  the  world  of  innocent  unconscious 
determined  aspirants  by  a  mysterious  fear. 

It  was  mean  to  sit  waiting  for  life  to  throw  up 
things  that  would  distract  one  for  a  while  from  the 
sense  of  emptiness.  Sitting  moving  about  from 
place  to  place,  in  the  dress  of  the  period.  Being 
nowhere,  one  had  no  right  even  to  the  dress  of  the 
period.  In  the  bottom  of  the  lake  .  .  .  hidden, 
and  forgotten.  Round  the  far-off  lake  were  feathery 
green  trees,  not  minding.  She  sat  imagining  their 
trunks,  filmed  over  with  the  murk  of  London  winters, 
but  all  the  more  beautiful  now,  standing  out  black 
amongst  the  clouds  of  green.  There  were  trees  in 
the  distance  ahead,  trees,  forgotten.  She  was  here 
to  look  at  them.  It  was  urgent,  important.  All 
this  long  time  and  she  had  never  once  looked.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  cautiously,  without  moving,  to  take  in  the  ' 
wide  belt  beyond  the  stretch  of  grass.  It  was  perfect. 
Full  spring  complete,  prepared  and  set  there,  un- 
grudgingly, demanding  nothing  but  love;  embanked 
between  the  sky  and  the  grass,  a  dense  perfect  shape 

-185- 


DEADLOCK 

of  various  pure  colour,  an  effect,  that  would  pass; 
but  she  had  seen  it.  The  sharp  angle  of  its  edge 
stood  out  against  a  farther,  far-off  belt  of  misty  green, 
with  here  and  there  a  dark  maroon  blot  of  copper 
beech. 

"Whatever  happens,  as  long  as  one  lives,  there  is 
the  spring." 

"Do  not  be  too  sure  of  this." 

"Of  course,  if  the  world  suddenly  came  to  an  end." 

"This  appreciation  of  spring  is  merely  a  question 
of  youth." 

"You  can't  be  sure." 

"On  the  contrary.  Do  you  imagine  for  Instance 
that  this  old  woman  on  the  next  seat  feels  the  spring 
as  you  do?" 

Miriam  rose  unable  to  look;  wishing  she  had  come 
alone;  or  had  not  spoken.  The  green  vistas  moved 
all  about  her,  dazzling  under  the  height  of  sky.  "I'm 
perfectly  sure  I  shall  always  feel  the  spring;  perhaps 
more  and  more."  She  escaped  into  irrelevant  spejsch, 
hurrying  along  so  that  he  should  hear  incompletely 
until  she  had  firm  hold  of  some  far-off  topic;  dreading 
the  sound  of  his  voice. 

The  flower-beds  were  in  sight,  gleaming  in  the  gaps 
between  the  tree  trunks  along  the  broad  walk  .  .  . 
ragged  children  were  shouting  and  chasing  each  other 
round  the  fountain.  "I  must  always  here  think,"  he 
said  as  they  passed  through  the  wicket  gate,  "of  this 
man  who  preaches  for  the  conversion  of  infidels,  Jews, 
Christians,  and  other  unbelievers." 

She  hurried  on  preparing  to  face  the  rows  of 
Saturday  afternoon  people  on  the  chairs  and  seats 
along   the    avenue,    their   suspicious   English   eyes   on 

—186— 


DEADLOCK 

her  scrappy,  dowdy,  out-of-date  English  self  and  her 
extraordinary  looking  foreigner.  Her  spirits  lifted. 
But  they  must  be  walking  quickly  and  talking.  The 
staring  self-revealing  faces  must  see  that  it  was  a 
privilege  to  have  converse  with  any  one  so  utterly 
strange  and  far  away  from  their  English  life. 

"I'm  not  interested  in  him,"  she  said  as  they  got 
into  their  stride. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  why.  I  can't  fix  my  thoughts  on 
him;  or  any  of  these  people  who  yell  at  crowds." 
Not  quite  that;  but  it  made  a  sentence  and  fitted  with 
their  walk. 

"It  is  perhaps  that  you  are  too  individualistic," 
panted  Mr.  Shatov.  There  was  no  opening  in  this 
for  an  appearance  of  easy  conversation;  the  words 
were  leaping  and  barking  round  her  like  dogs. 

But  she  turned  swiftly  leading  the  way  down  a 
winding  side  path  and  demanding  angrily  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone  how  it  was  possible  to  be  too  indi- 
vidualistic. 

"I  agree  to  a  certain  extent  that  it  is  impossible. 
A  man  is  first  himself.  But  the  peril  is  of  being  cut 
off  from  his  fellow  creatures." 

"Why  peril?  Men  descend  to  meet.  Are  you 
a  socialist?  Do  you  believe  in  the  opinions  of 
mediocre  majorities?" 

"Why  this  adjective?  Why  mediocre?  No,  I 
would  call  myself  rather  one  who  believes  in  the 
race." 

^^PFhat  race?  The  race  is  nothing  without  indi- 
viduals," 

"What  is  an  individual  without  the  race?" 

-187- 


DEADLOCK 

"An  individual,  with  a  consciousness;  or  a  soul, 
whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  The  race,  apart  from 
individuals  is  nothing  at  all." 

"You  have  introduced  here  several  immense  ques- 
tions. There  is  the  question  as  to  whether  a  human 
being  isolated  from  his  fellows  would  retain  any 
human  characteristics.  Your  great  Buckle  has  con- 
sidered this  in  relation  to  the  problem  of  heredity. 
But  aside  of  this,  has  the  race  not  a  soul  and  an 
individuality?  Greater  than  that  of  its  single 
parts?" 

"Certainly  not.  The  biggest  thing  a  race  does 
is  to  produce  a  few  big  individualities." 

"The  biggest  thing  that  the  race  does  is  that  it  goes 
on.     Individuals  perish." 

"You  don't  know  that  they  do." 

"That  is  speculation;  without  evidence.  I  have 
the  most  complete  evidence  that  the  race  survives." 

"It  may  die,  according  to  science." 

"That  also  is  a  speculation.  But  what  is  certain 
is — that  the  greatest  individual  is  great  only  as  he 
gives  much  to  the  race ;  to  his  fellow  creatures.  With- 
out this,  individuality  is  pure-negative." 

"Individuality  cannot  be  negative." 

"There  speaks  the  Englishwoman.  It  is  certainly 
England's  highest  attainment  that  the  rights  of  the 
individual  are  sacred  here.  But  even  this  is  not  com- 
plete.    It  is  still  impeded  by  class  prejudice." 

"/  haven't  any  class  prejudice.  " 

"You  are  wrong;  believe  me  you  have  immensely 
these  prejudices.  I  could  quite  easily  prove  this  to 
you.     You  are  in  many  ways  most  exceptionally  for 

—188— 


DEADLOCK 

an  Englishwoman  emancipated.  But  you  are  still 
pure-Tory." 

"That  is  only  my  stamp.  I  can't  help  that.  But 
I  myself  have  no  prejudices." 

"They  are  so  far  in  you  unconscious."  He  spoke 
with  extreme  gentleness,  and  Miriam  looked  un- 
easily ahead,  wondering  whether  with  this  strange 
knowledge  at  her  side  she  might  be  passing  forward 
to  some  fresh  sense  of  things  that  would  change  the 
English  world  for  her.  English  prejudices.  He  saw 
them  as  clearly  as  he  saw  that  she  was  not  beautiful. 
And  gently,  as  if  they  were  charming  as  well  as 
funny  to  him.  Their  removal  would  come;  through 
a  painless  association.  For  a  while  she  would  remain 
as  she  was.  But  even  seeing  England  from  his  point 
of  view,  was  being  changed;  a  little.  The  past,  up 
to  the  last  few  moments,  was  a  life  she  had  lived 
without  knowing  that  it  was  a  life  lived  in  special 
circumstances  and  from  certain  points  of  view. 
Now,  perhaps  moving  away  from  it,  these  circum- 
stances and  points  of  view  suddenly  became  a  pos- 
session, full  of  fascinating  interest.  But  she  had 
lived  blissfully.  Something  here  and  there  in  his 
talk  threatened  happiness. 

He  seemed  to  see  people  only  as  members  of 
nations,  grouped  together  with  all  their  circum- 
stances. Perhaps  everything  could  be  explained  in 
this  way.  .  .  .  All  her  meaning  for  him  was  her 
English  heredity,  a  thing  he  seemed  to  think  the 
finest  luck  in  the  world,  and  her  free  English  en- 
vironment, the  result  of  it;  things  she  had  known 
nothing  about  until  he  came,  smiling  at  her  ignorance 

—189— 


DEADLOCK 

of  them,  and  declaring  the  ignorance  to  be  the  best 
testimony  .  .  .  that  was  it;  he  gave  her  her  nation- 
ality and  surroundings,  the  fact  of  being  England  to 
him  made  everything  easy.  There  was  no  need  to 
do  or  be  anything,  individual.  It  was  too  easy.  It 
must  be  demoralizing  .  .  .  just  sitting  there  basking 
in  being  English.  .  .  .  Everything  she  did,  every- 
thing that  came  to  her  in  the  outside  world  turned 
out  to  be  demoralizing  .  .  .  too  easy  .  .  .  some 
fraud  in  it.  .  .  .  But  the  pity  she  ^und  herself 
suddenly  feeling  for  all  English  people  who  had  not 
intelligent  foreign  friends  gave  her  courage  to  go 
on.  Meanwhile  there  was  an  unsettled  troublesome 
point.     Something  that  could  not  be  left. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "I  daresay.  But  at  any  rate, 
I  have  an  open  mind.  Do  you  think  that  the  race 
is  sacred,  and  has  purposes,  super-man  you  know 
what  I  mean,  Nietzsche,  and!  that  individuals  are 
fitted  up  with  the  instincts  tjhat  keep  them  going, 
just  to  blind  them  to  the  fact  that  they  don't 
matter?" 

"If  one  must  use  these  terms,  the  race  is  certainly 
more  sacred  than  the  individual." 

"Very  well  then;  I  know  what  I  think.  If  the 
sacred  race  plays  tricks  on  conscious  human  beings, 
using  them  for  its  own  sacred  purposes  and  giving 
them  an  unreal  sense  of  mattering,  I  don't  care  a 
button  for  the  race  and  I'd  rather  kill  myself  than 
serve  its  purposes.  Besides,  the  instincts  of  self 
preservation,  and  reproduction  are  not  the  only  human 
motives  .   .   .   they  are  not  human  at  all.  .   .   ." 


— 190 — 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  picturesque  building  had  been  there,  just 
round  the  corner,  all  these  years,  without 
once  attracting  her  interested  notice.  The  question 
she  directed  towards  it,  crossing  the  road  for  a 
nearer  view,  went  forth,  not  from  herself,  but  from 
the  presence,  close  at  her  side,  of  Michael  Shatov. 
During  the  hour  spent  in  her  room,  facing  the 
empty  evening,  she  had  been  aware  of  nothing,  out- 
side the  startling  disturbance  of  her  own  move- 
ments, but  the  immense  silence  he  had  left.  Driven 
forth  to  walk  away  its  hours  out  of  doors,  she  found, 
accompanying  her  through  the  green-lit  evening 
squares,  the  tones  and  gestures  of  his  voice,  the  cer- 
tainty, that  so  long  as  she  should  frequent  the 
neighbourhood,  she  would  retain  the  sense  of  his  com- 
panionship. The  regions  within  her,  of  unexpressed 
thought  and  feeling,  to  which  he  had  not  reached, 
were  at  once  all  about  her  as  she  made  her  old, 
familiar,  unimpeded  escape  through  the  front  door, 
towards  the  blur  of  feathery  green  standing  in  the 
ibrlght  twilight  at  the  end  of  the  grey  street;  but 
beyond  these  inner  zones,  restored  in  a  tumult  of 
triumphant  assertion  of  their  indestructibility,  the 
outer  difficult  life  of  expression  and  association  was 
changed.  If,  as  she  feared,  he  should  finally  dis- 
appear Into  the  new  world  towards  which,  with  such 

—191— 


DEADLOCK 

urgent  Irritated  determination,  she  had  driven  him, 
she  would,  for  life,  have  reaped  a  small  fund  of  his 
Russian  courage  and  indifference.  ...  It  was  with 
his  Impulse  and  interest,  almost  it  seemed,  actually 
in  his  person,  that  she  drew  up  in  front  of  the  placard 
at  the  side  of  the  strange  low  ecclesiastical  looking 
porch.  But  as  she  read  its  contents,  he  left  her,  sped 
Into  forgetfulness  by  the  swift  course  of  her  amaze- 
ment. She  had  come,  leaving  her  room  at  exactly 
the  right  moment,  directly,  by  appointment,  to  this 
spot.  Glancing  once  more  for  perfect  assurance,  at 
the  liberal  invitation  printed  In  large  letters  at  the 
foot  of  the  heavenly  announcement,  she  went  boldly 
Into  the  porch. 

At  the  top  of  the  shallow  flight  of  grey  stone 
steps  up  which  she  passed  almost  directly  from  the 
ecclesiastical  doorway,  a  large  black-draped  figure, 
surmounted  by  the  sweeping  curves  of  an  Immense 
black  hat  voluminously  swathed  in  a  gauze  veil  of 
pale  grey,  stood  bent  towards  a  small  woman  stand- 
ing on  the  step  below  her  in  dingy  indoor  black. 
The  large  outline,  standing  generously  out  below 
the  broad  low  stone  archway  curving  above  the  steps, 
against  the  further  grey  stone  of  what  appeared  to 
be  part  of  a  low  ceiled  corridor,  was  in  extraordinary 
contrast  to  the  graciously  bending,  surrendered  at- 
titude of  the  figure.  Passing  close  to  the  group, 
Miriam  caught  a  glimpse  of  large  plump  features, 
bold  eyebrows,  and  firm  dark  eyes.  The  whole  face, 
imagined  as  unscreened,  was  rounded,  simple  and  un- 
distinguished; blurred  by  the  veil,  it  swam,  without 
edges,  a  misty  full  moon.  Through  the  veil  came 
a  voice  that  thrilled  her  as  she  moved  on,  led  by  a 

— 192 — 


DEADLOCK 

card  bearing  an  arrowed  instruction,  down  the  grey 
stone  corridor,  with  the  desire  for  immediate  audible 
mimicry.  The  behaviour  of  the  voice  was  a  perfect 
confirmation  of  dehberate  intentional  blurring  of  the 
large  face.  The  little  scanty  frugally  upstanding 
woman  who  appeared  to  be  of  the  artisan  class,  was 
either  a  humorous  brick,  or  a  toady,  or  of  the  old- 
fashioned  respectful  servant  type,  to  stand  it.  The 
superfluous  statement  might,  at  least,  even  if  the 
voice  had  become  second  nature,  she  might  be  thirty, 
have  been  delivered  at  an  ordinary  conver!sational 
pace.  But  to  make  the  unimportant  comment  in  the 
deliberately  refined  distressed  ladylike  voice,  with 
pauses,  as  if  every  word  were  a  precious  gift  .  .  .  she 
was  waiting  for  some  occasion,  keeping  her  manner 
going,  and  the  little  woman  had  to  stand  out  the 
performance. 

On  her  way  down  the  corridor  she  met  a  young 
man  with  a  long  neck  above  a  low  collar,  walking 
like  an  undergraduate,  with  a  rapid  lope  and  a 
forward  hen-like  jerk  of  the  head,  but  with  kind 
religious  looking  eyes.  Underneath  his  conforming 
manner  and  his  English  book  and  talk-found  thoughts, 
he  was  acutely  miserable,  but  never  alone  long  enough 
to  find  it  out;  never  even  long  enough  to  feel  his  own 
impulses.  Two  girls  came  swiftly  by,  bare-headed, 
in  reform  dresses,  talking  eagerly  in  high-pitched 
out-turned  cultured  voices,  their  uncommunicating 
selves  watchfully  entrenched  behind  the  polite  Norman 
idiom.  She  carried  on  their  manner  of  speech  at 
lightning  speed  in  her  mind,  watching  its  effect  upon 
everything  it  handled,  of  damming  up,  shaping,  ex- 
cluding   all    but    ready-made    thought    and    opinion. 

—193— 


DEADLOCK 

Just  ahead  was  an  arched  doorway  and  a  young  man 
with  a  sheaf  of  pamphlets  standing  within  it.  "It 
may,"  she  announced  in  character  to  an  imaginary 
companion,  "prove  necessary  to  have  some  sort  of 
conversational  interchange  with  this  individual."  Cer- 
tainly it  left  one  better  prepared  for  the  interview 
than  saying,  "Good  Lord  shall  we  have  to  say  some- 
thing to  this  creature?"  She  got  safely  through  the 
doorway,  exchanging  a  slight  bow  with  the  young 
man  as  he  provided  her  with  a  syllabus,  and  entered 
a  large  lofty  quietly-lit  room,  where  a  considerable 
audience  sat  facing  a  raised  platform  more  brightly 
illuminated,  and  from  which  they  were  confronted 
by  a  row  of  seated  forms.  She  went  down  the  central 
gangway,  bold  in  her  desire  for  a  perfect  hearing 
and  slipped  into  a  seat  in  the  second  row  of  chairs. 
The  chairman  was  taking  his  place  and  in  the  dying 
down  of  conversation  she  heard!  a  quiet  flurry  of 
draperies  approaching  with  delicate  apologetic 
rhythm  up  the  gangway.  It  was  the  tall  young 
woman.  She  passed,  a  veiled  figure  with  bent  head 
and  floating  scarf,  along  the  little  passage  between 
the  front  row  of  the  audience  and  the  fern-edged 
platform,  upon  which  she  presently  emerged, 
taking  her  place  next  to  a  lady  who  now  rose  and 
came  forward,  tall  and  black  robed,  and  whose 
face,  sharply  pointing  beneath  the  shadow  of  a 
plumy  hat,  had  the  expression  of  an  eagle  searching 
the  distance  with  calm  piercing  eyes.  In  rousing 
ringing  griev^ous  tones  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
precede  the  chairman  with  an  important  announce- 
ment. Miriam  inwardly  groaned  as  the  voice  chid 
tragically   on,    demanding   a   realization   on   the   part 

—194— 


DEADLOCK 

of  all,  of  the  meaning  for  London  of  the  promised 
arrival  in  its  midst  of  a  world-famed  authority  in 
Greek  letters.  She  felt  the  audience  behind  her 
quelled  into  absolute  stillness,  and  took  angry 
refuge  in  the  cover  of  her  syllabus.  "The  Further- 
more Settlement,"  she  read,  printed  boldly  at  the 
head  of  the  page.  It  was  one  of  those  missions; 
to  bring  culture  amongst  the  London  poor  .  .  . 
"devoted  young  men  from  the  Universities."  Those 
girls  in  the  corridor,  wrapped  in  their  code,  were 
doing  "settlement  work."  They  did  not  look 
philanthropic.  What  they  loved  most  was  the 
building,  the  grey  stone  corridors  and  archways, 
and  being  away  from  home  on  a  prolonged  adventure, 
free  to  weave  bright  colours  along  the  invisible  edges 
of  life.  She  could  not  imagine  them  ever  becoming 
in  the  least  like  the  elderly  philanthropists  on  the 
platform.  But  they  were  not  free.  The  place  was 
a  sort  of  monastery  of  culture.  If  they  wore  habits 
they  would  be  free  and  deeply  inspiring.  But  they 
went  about  dressed  longingly  in  the  colours  of  sunlit 
landscapes,  and  lived  their  social  life  with  ideas. 
There  was  something  monastic  about  the  lofty  hall, 
with  its  neutral  tinted  walls  and  high-placed  windows. 
But  the  place  was  modern  and  well-ventilated,  even 
sternly  chilly.  Turning  on  her  shoulder  to  examine 
the  dutiful  audience,  she  was  startled  by  its  effect  of 
massed  intellectuality.  These  people  were  certainly 
not  the  poor  of  the  neighbourhood.  By  far  the  larger 
number  were  men,  and  wherever  she  looked  she  met 
faces  from  which  she  turned  quickly  away  lest  she 
should  smile  her  pleasure.  Even  those  that  were 
heavy   with    stoutness   and   beards   had    the   same   lit 

—  195— 


DEADLOCK 

moving  look  of  kindly  adventurous  thought.  They 
were  a  picked  gathering;  like  the  Royal  Institution; 
but  more  glowing.  She  turned  back  to  the  platform 
in  high  hope  amidst  the  outburst  of  applause  greeting 
the  retirement  of  the  distressful  lady  and  deepening 
to  enthusiasm  as  there  emerged  timidly  from  behind 
one  of  the  large  platform  screens  a  tall  figure  in 
evening  dress,  a  great  grown-up  boy,  with  a  large 
fresh  face  and  helpless  straight  hanging  arms  and 
hands.  He  sat  big  and  fixed,  like  an  idol,  whilst  the 
chairman  standing  bowing  over  his  table  hurriedly 
remarked  that  an  introduction  was  superfluous,  and 
gazed  at  the  audience  with  large  moist  blue  eyes  that 
seemed  permanently  open  and  expressionless  and  yet 
to  pray  for  protection,  or  permission  to  retreat  once 
more  behind  his  screen.  Miriam  pitied  him  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  and  saw  with  relief  when  he  rose 
that  he  produced  a  roll  of  papers  for  which  a  little 
one-legged  ecclesiastical  reading  desk  was  conveniently 
waiting.  He  was  going  to  read.  But  he  placed  his 
papers  with  large  incapable  fingers  and  she  feared 
they  would  flutter  to  the  ground,  till  he  turned  and 
took  one  fumbling  expressionless  step  clear  of  the 
little  desk  and  standing  just  as  he  was,  his  arms 
hanging  once  more  heavy  and  helpless  at  his  side, 
his  eyes  motionlessly  fixed  neither  on  the  distance  nor 
on  any  part  of  the  audience,  as  if  sightlessly  focussing 
everything  before  him,  began,  without  movement,  or 
warning  gesture,  to  speak.  With  the  first  sound  of 
his  v^oice,  Miriam  surrendered  herself  to  breathless 
listening.  It  sounded  out,  at  conversational  pitch, 
with  a  colourless  serenity  that  instantly  explained  his 
bearing,    revealing   him  beyond   the    region   either   of 

— 196 — 


DEADLOCK 

diffidence  or  temerity.  It  was  a  voice  speaking  to 
no  one,  in  a  world  emptied  of  everything  that  had 
gone  before. 

"The  progress  of  philosophy,"  went  the  words, 
in  letters  of  gold  across  the  dark  void,  "is  by  a 
series  of  systems;  that  of  science  by  the  constant 
addition  of  small  facts  to  accumulated  knowledge." 
In  the  slight  pause  Miriam  held  back  from  the 
thoughts  flying  out  in  all  directions  round  the  glowing 
words,  they  would  come  again,  if  she  could  memorize 
the  words  from  which  they  were  born,  coolly,  register- 
ing the  shape  and  length  of  the  phrases  and  the  leading 
terms.  Before  the  voice  began  again  she  had  read 
and  re-read  many  times;  driving  back  an  exciting 
intruder  trying,  from  the  depths  of  her  mind  to  engage 
her  on  the  subject  of  the  time-expanding  swiftness 
of  thought. 

"A  system,"  pursued  the  voice,  "very  generally 
corrects  the  fallacy  of  the  preceding  system,  and 
leans  perhaps  in  the  opposite  direction."  She  flushed 
warm  beneath  the  pressure  of  her  longing  to  remain 
cool.  .  .  .  "Thus  the  movements  of  philosophic 
thought  may  be  compared  to  the  efforts  of  a  drunken 
man  to  reach  his  home."  The  blue  eyes  remained 
unaltered,  while  the  large  fresh  face  expanded  with 
a  smiling  radiance.  He  was  a  darling.  "He  reels 
against  the  wall  to  his  right  and  gains  an  impetus 
which  sends  him  staggering  to  the  left  and  so  on; 
his  progress  being  a  series  of  zigzags.  But  in  the 
end  he  gets  home.  And  we  may  hope  that  philosophy 
will  do  the  same,  though  the  road  seems  at  times 
unnecessarily  broad." 

He  turned  back  to  his  papers,  leaving  his  sentence 
—197— 


DEADLOCK 

on  the  air  in  an  intense  silence  through  which  Miriam 
felt  the  eager  expectency  of  the  audience  flow  and 
hang  waiting,  gathered  towards  the  fresh  centre 
whence,  unless  he  suddenly  vanished,  would  come, 
through  the  perfect  medium  of  the  unobstructive 
voice,  his  utmost  presentation  of  reasons  for  the 
tantalizing  hope. 

At  the  end  of  the  lecture  she  sat  hurriedly  sorting 
and  re-sorting  what  she  had  gleaned;  aware  that  her 
attention  had  again  and  again  wandered  off  with  single 
statements  that  had  appealed  to  her,  longing  to  com- 
municate with  other  members  of  the  audience  in  the 
hope  of  filling  up  the  gaps.  Perhaps  the  questions 
would  bring  back  some  of  the  things  she  had  missed. 
But  no  one  seemed  to  have  anything  to  ask.  The 
relaxation  of  the  hearty  and  prolonged  applause  had 
given  way  to  the  sort  of  silence  that  falls  in  a  room 
after  vociferous  greetings,  when  the  anticipated 
occasion  vanishes  and  the  gathered  friends  become 
suddenly  unrecognizably  small  and  dense.  She  looked 
at  the  woman  at  her  side  and  caught  a  swift  responsive 
glance  that  shocked  her,  clear  blue  and  white  and 
remote  in  limpid  freshness  though  it  was,  with  its 
chill  understanding  familiarity.  Something  had  gone 
irrevocably  from  the  evening  and  from  herself.  The 
strange  woman  was  exactly  like  somebody  ...  a 
disguise  of  somebody.  Shattering  the  silence  came 
a  voice  from  the  back  of  the  hall.  "If  the  lecturer 
thinks,  and  seems  to  deprecate  the  fact,  that  theology 
deals  with  metaphysical  problems  in  an  unmetaphys- 
ical  way,  that  is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  metaphysic, 
in  an  unscientific  way  .  .  ."  compared  to  Dr.  Mc- 
Hibbert's  his  v^oice  was  like  the  voice  of  an  intoxicated 

— iq8— 


DEADLOCK 

man  arguing  to  himself  in  a  railway  carriage  .  .  . 
"may  we  not  say  that  when  metaphysic  takes  upon 
itself  to  criticize  the  validity  of  scientific  conceptions, 
it  does  so,  from  the  point  of  view  of  science  in  an 
unscientific  way?" 

This  Miriam  felt,  was  terribly  unanswerable.  But 
the  hushed  platform  was  alive  with  the  standing 
figure  almost  before  the  muffling  of  the  last  emphatic 
word  told  that  the  assailant  had  reassumed  his  seat. 

"I  think  I  have  said,"  his  face  beaming  with  the 
repressed  radiance  of  an  invading  smile,  was  lifted 
towards  the  audience,  but  the  blue  eyes  modestly 
addressed  the  frill  of  green  along  the  platform  edge, 
"that  metaphysic,  with  respect  to  some  of  the  con- 
ceptions of  science,  while  admitting  that  they  have 
their  uses  for  practical  purposes,  denies  that  they 
are  exactly  true.  Theology  does  not  deny  the 
problems  of  metaphysic,  but  answers  them  in  a  way 
metaphysic  cannot  accept." 

"In  that  case  Theology ''  began  a  rich,  reverberat- 
ing clerical  voice  .   .   . 

"This  is  veggy  boring,"  said  the  woman. 

He  was  going  to  claim,  thought  Miriam,  noting  the 
evidence  of  foreign  intelligence  in  her  neighbour's 
pronunciation,  that  religion,  like  metaphysic  and 
science,  had  a  right  to  its  premises  and  denied  that 
metaphysic  was  adequate  for  the  study  of  the  ultimate 
nature  of  reality,  exactly  as  metaphysic  denied  that 
science  was  adequate. 

"Yes,  isn't  it,"  she  murmured,  a  little  late,  through 
the  deep  caressing  thunder  of  the  clerical  voice, 
wondering  how  far  she  had  admitted  her  willingness 
to  be  at  the  disposal  of  any  one  who  found,  in  these 

—199— 


DEADLOCK 

tremendous     onslaughts,     nothing     but     irrelevance. 

"If  one  could  peacefully  fall  asleep  until  the 
summing  up." 

She  spoke  out  quite  clearly,  moving  so  that  she 
was  half  turned  towards  Miriam,  and  completely 
exposed  to  her,  as  she  sat  with  an  elbow  on  the  back 
of  her  chair  and  her  knees  comfortably  crossed,  in  all 
her  slender  grey-clad  length,  still  set  towards  the  centre 
of  the  platform.  Miriam  unwillingly  searched  her 
curious  effect  of  making  in  the  atmosphere  about  her, 
a  cold,  delicate,  blue  and  white  glare.  She  had 
seemed,  all  the  evening,  a  well-dressed  presence.  But 
her  little  oval  hat,  entirely  covered  with  a  much 
washed  piece  of  cream  coloured  lace  and  set  back 
from  her  forehead  at  the  angle  of  an  old-fashioned 
flat  lace  cap,  had  not  been  bought  at  a  shop,  and  the 
light  grey  garment  so  delicate  in  tone  and  expression, 
open  at  the  neck,  where  creamy  lace  continued  the 
effect  of  the  hat,  was  nothing  but  a  cheap  rain-cloak. 
Either  she  was  poor,  and  triumphing  over  her  poverty 
with  a  laborious  depressing  ingenuity,  or  she  was  one 
of  those  people  who  deliberately  do  everything 
cheaply.  There  was  something  faintly  horrible, 
Miriam  felt,  about  the  narrowness  of  her  escape  from 
dowdiness  to  distinction.  .  .  .  Washable  lace  was 
the  simplest  possible  solution  of  the  London  hat 
problem.  No  untravelled  Englishwoman  would 
have  thought  of  it.  .  .  .  Behind  the  serenity  of  her 
smooth  white  brow,  behind  her  cold  wide  clearly  ringed 
sea-blue  eyes,  was  the  dominant  intelligence  of  it  all, 
the  secret  of  the  strange  atmosphere,  that  enveloped 
her  whole  effect;  so  strong  and  secure  that  it  infected 
her  words  and  movements  with  a  faint  robust  delicate 

— 200 — 


DEADLOCK 

levity.  In  most  women  the  sum  of  the  tangible  items 
would  have  produced  the  eye-wearying,  eye-estranging 
pathos  of  the  spectacle  of  patience  fighting  a  lost  battle, 
supplied  so  numerously  all  over  London  by  women 
who  were  no  longer  young;  or  at  least  a  consciously 
resigned  cheerfulness.  But  she  sat  there  with  the 
enviable  cool  clear  radiant  eyes  of  a  child  that  is 
held  still  and  unsmiling  by  the  deep  entrancement 
of  its  mirth. 

The  chairman  had  risen  and  suddenly  quelled  the 
vast  voice  in  the  midst  of  its  rising  tide  of  tone, 
with  the  reminder  that  there  would  be  opportunity 
for  discussion  a  little  later.  A  question  rang  out, 
short  and  sharp,  exploding,  as  if  released  automati- 
cally by  the  renewal  of  stillness,  so  abruptly  that 
Miriam  missed  its  significance.  The  woman  laughed 
instantly,  a  little  clear  tinkling  gleeful  sound, 
hesitatingly  supported  here  and  there  amongst  the 
forward  rows  of  chairs  by  stirrings  and  small  sounds 
of  amusement.  Miriam  glowed  with  shame.  It 
had  been  a  common  voice;  perhaps  some  lonely  un- 
instructed  man,  struggling  with  problems  that  were 
as  terrible  to  him  as  to  any  one;  in  the  end  desperately 
getting  round  them,  by  logical  somersaults,  so  funny, 
that  these  habitually  cultured  minds  could  see  only 
the  absurdity.  Her  heart  beat  with  gratitude  as  the 
lecturer,  with  gentle  respectful  gravity,  paraphrased 
at  some  length  an  extract  from  the  earlier  part  of  his 
address.  She  was  once  more  recalled  by  the  voice 
at  her  side.  Turning  she  found  the  unchanged  face 
still  set  towards  the  platform.  She  answered  the 
question  in  a  low  toneless  voice  that  yet  sounded 
more  disturbing  than  the  easy  smooth  conversational 

— 20 1 — 


DEADLOCK 

tone  of  her  neighbour.  She  talked  on,  questioning 
and  commenting,  in  neat  inclusive  phrases,  and 
Miriam,  turned  towards  her,  reading  the  history  of 
the  duel  of  audience  and  lecturer  in  the  flickerings 
across  her  face,  of  amusement  or  of  scorn,  responded 
freely,  delighting  in  a  converse  that  was  more 
wonderful,  with  its  background  of  cosmic  discussion, 
than  even  the  untrammelled  exchange  of  confidences 
with  a  stranger  on  a  bus.  Presently  there  was  a 
complete  stillness. 

"If  there  are  no  more  questions,"  said  the  chair- 
man, rising. 

"I  should  just  like''  broke  In  a  ringing  cheerful 
voice  quite  near  at  hand,  "to  ask  Dr.  McHIbbert 
why,  If  he  considers  that  metaphysic  Is  of  no  use  in  a 
man's  life,  he  finds  it  worth  while,  to  pursue  such  a 
fruitless  study?" 

"Don't  answer,"  said  the  woman  in  clear  pene- 
trating tones. 

"Don't  answer;  don't  answer,"  repeated  In  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  two  or  three  masculine 
voices.  The  lecturer,  sitting  bent  forward,  his  friendly 
open  brow  yielded  up  to  the  invading  audience,  his 
big  hands  clasped  capaciously  between  his  knees,  sent 
a  blue  glance  swiftly  in  her  direction,  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  sat  silent,  smiling  broadly  down 
at  his  clasped  hands. 

"Isn't  he  a  perfect  darling,"  murmured  Miriam 
while  the  chairman  declared  the  lecture  open  for 
discussion  and  she  gathered  herself  together  for  close 
attention. 

"There  will  be  nothing  worth  heahghing  till  he 
sums  up,"   said  her   companion   and  went  on  to   ask 

— 202 — 


DEADLOCK 

her  if  she  meant  to  attend  the  next  lecture.  Miriam 
perceived  that  unless  she  chose  to  escape  forcibly, 
her  companion  had  her  in  a  close  net  of  conversation. 
She  glanced  and  saw  that  her  face  was  already  that 
of  a  familiar  associate,  no  longer  spurring  her  to  trace 
to  its  source  the  strange  impression  that  at  first  it 
had  given  her  of  being  a  forgotten  face,  whose  sudden 
return,  unrecognizably  disguised,  and  yet  so  recogniz- 
able, filled  her  with  a  remembered  sentiment  of 
dislike. 

"Rather,"  she  said  and  then,  watching  the  opening 
prospect  of  the  long  series  of  speeches,  and  protected 
by  the  monotonous  booming  of  a  pessimistic  male 
voice,  "I'm  so  awfully  relieved  to  find  that  science 
is  only  half  true.  But  I  can't  see  why  he  says  that 
metaphysic  is  no  practical  use.  It  would  make  all 
the  difi^erence  every  moment,  to  know  for  certain  that 
mind  is  more  than  matter." 

"Pahghfaitement." 

Dr.  McHibbert's  voice  interrupted  her,  damming 
up  the  urgent  flow  of  communications.  She  watched 
him,  listening  without  attention. 

"He's  like  a  marvellously  intelligent  bolster,"  she 
said  tonelessly,  "but  with  a  heart  and  a  soul.  He 
certainly  has  a  soul." 

Flattered  by  a  soft  chuckle  of  amusement,  she 
added  in  a  low  murmuring  man's  voice,  "the  objectors 
are  like  candle-lit  turnip  ghosts,"  and  was  rewarded  by 
the  first  direct  glance  from  the  blue  eyes,  smiling, 
assuring  her  that  she  was  acceptable.  The  ghost  of 
the  remembered  face  was  laid.  Whoever  it  was,  if 
in  reality  It  were  to  reappear  In  her  life,  she  would 
be  able  to  overcome  her  aversion  by  bold  flirtation. 

—203— 


DEADLOCK 

When  the  lecturer  at  last  rose  to  reply,  the  guiding 
phrases  of  his  discourse  were  the  worn  familiar  keys 
of  a  past  experience.  Used  for  the  second  time  at 
the  doors  of  the  chambers  they  had  opened  within 
the  background  of  life,  they  grated,  hesitating,  and 
the  heavy  sound  threw  the  bright  spaces  into  shadow 
and  spread  a  film  of  doubt  over  Miriam's  eagerness  to 
escape  and  share  her  illumination  with  people  waiting 
outside  in  the  surrounding  gloom.  The  light  would 
return  and  remain  for  her.  But  it  was  something 
accomplished  unaccountably.  The  mere  reproduction 
of  the  magic  phrases,  even  when  after  solitary  peace- 
ful contemplation  she  should  have  reassembled  them 
in  their  right  relations  and  their  marvellously  advanc- 
ing sequence,  would  not  carry  her  hearers  along  the 
road  she  had  travelled.  The  something  that  held 
them  together,  lively  and  enlivening,  was  incom- 
municable. 

"Don't  huggy  away.  The  audience  will  take  a 
considerable  time  to  disperse." 

Miriam  desired  only  to  escape  into  the  night. 
Just  outside,  in  the  darkness,  was  the  balm  that  would 
disperse  her  disquietude.  The  grey-clad  woman  held 
it  suspended  in  the  hot  room,  piling  mountainously 
up.  But  they  sat  enclosed,  a  closely  locked  party  of 
two.  Conversation  was  going  on  all  over  the  room. 
This  woman  with  her  little  deprecating  frown  at  the 
idea  of  immediate  departure,  had  the  secret  of  the 
congregational  aspect  of  audiences.  Miriam  sat 
still,  passively  surrendering  to  the  forcible  initiation 
into  the  new  role  of  lingerer,  to  the  extent  of  flounder- 
ing through  absent-minded  responses. 

"What?"  she  said  suddenly,  turning  full  round. 
—204— 


DEADLOCK 

Something  had  thrilled  upon  the  air  about  her, 
bringing  the  whole  evening  to  a  head. 

"Haldane's  Pathway  to  Reality,"  repeated  the 
woman  as  their  eyes  met.  Miriam  was  held  by  the 
intense  radiance  of  the  blue  eyes.  Light,  strangely 
cool  and  pure,  flowed  from  the  still  face.  She  was 
beautiful,  with  a  curious  impersonal  glowless  beauty. 
The  light  that  came  from  her  was  the  light  of  some- 
thing she  saw,  habitually. 

"But  I  ought  not  to  recommend  you  to  read.  You 
ought  to  spend  all  your  free  time  in  the  open  air. 
Moreover,  it's  very  stiff  reading." 

Miriam  rose,  beleaguered  and  flinching.  How  did 
people  find  out  about  books?  Where  did  they  get 
them  from?  This  woman  could  not  afford  to  buy 
big  expensive  volumes.  .  .  .  Why  did  her  quick 
mind  assume  that  the  difficulty  of  the  book  would  be 
a  barrier,  and  not  see  that  it  was  the  one  book  she 
was  waiting  for,  even  if  it  were  the  stiffest  and  dryest 
in  the  world?  .  .  .  But  the  title  was  unforgettable; 
one  day  she  would  come  across  the  book  somewhere 
and  get  at  its  meaning  in  her  own  way. 

"Well;  we  may  meet  next  week,  if  we  are  both 
early;  I  shall  be  early."  She  rose  enlivening  her  grey 
cloak  with  the  swift  grace  of  her  movements  and 
together  they  proceeded  down  the  rapidly  emptying 
room. 

"My  name  is  Lucie  Duclaux." 

The  shock  of  this  unexpected  ad\'ance  arrested 
Miriam's  rapid  flight  towards  the  harbour  of  soli- 
tude. She  smiled  a  formal  acknowledgment,  unable 
and  entirely  unwilling  to  identify  herself  with  a 
name.     Her     companion,     remaining     close     in     her 

— 205 — 


DEADLOCK 

neighbourhood  as  they  threaded  their  way  amongst 
talking  groups  along  the  corridor,  said  nothing  more, 
and  when  they  reached  the  doorway  Miriam's  deter- 
mination to  be  free,  kept  her  blind  and  dumb.  She 
was  aware  of  an  exclamation  about  the  rain.  That 
was  enough.  She  would  not  risk  a  parting  intimate 
enough  to  suggest  another  meeting,  with  any  one  * 
who  at  the  sight  of  rain,  belaboured  the  air  and  the 
people  about  her,  with  an  exclamation  that  was, 
however  gracious  and  elegant,  a  deliberate  assault, 
condemning  her  moreover  of  the  possession  of  two 
voices.  .  .  .  Gathering  up  her  Lucie  Duclaux 
cloak,  the  woman  bowed  swiftly  and  disappeared  into 
the  night. 

The  girls  had  understood  that  the  evening  had 
been  a  vital  experience.  But  they  had  sat  far  away, 
seeming  to  be  more  than  ever  enclosed  in  their 
attitude  of  tolerant  amusement  at  her  doings;  more 
than  ever  supporting  each  other  in  a  manner  that 
told,  with  regard  to  herself,  of  some  final  unani- 
mous conclusion  reached  and  decision  taken,  after 
much  discussion,  once  for  all.  In  the  old  days  they 
would  have  thought  nothing  of  her  dropping  in  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  with  no  reason  but  that  of 
just  dropping  in.  But  now,  therr  armoury  of  de- 
tached expectancy  demanded  always  that  she  should 
supply  some  pretext.  Tonight,  feeling  that  the 
pretext  was  theirs,  ev^ery  one's,  news  too  pressing  to 
wait,  she  had  rushed  in  unprepared,  with  something 
of  her  old  certainty  of  welcome.  It  was  so  simple. 
It  must  be  important  to  Jan  that  what  Hegel  meant 
was  only  just  beginning  to  be  understood.  If  Jan's 
acceptance  of  Haeckel  made  her  sad,  here  was  what 

— 206 — 


DEADLOCK 

she  wanted;  even  though  McHibbert  said  that  we 
have  no  right  to  believe  a  theory  because  we  could 
not  be  happy  unless  it  were  true.  .  .  .  All  the 
same  a  theory  that  makes  yoit  miserable  oan't  be 
altogether  true.  .  .  .  Miserable;  not  sorry.  Every- 
thing depends  upon  the  kind  of  man  who  sets  up  the 
theory  .  .  .  Pessimists  can  find  as  good  reasons  as 
optimists  .  .  .  but  if  the  optimist  is  cheerful  because 
he  is  healthy  and  the  pessimist  gloomy  because  .  .  . 
everything  is  a  matter  of  temperament.  Neither  of 
them  see  that  the  fact  of  there  being  anything  anywhere 
is  more  wonderful  than  any  theory  about  the  fact  .  .  . 
making  optimists  and  pessimists  look  exactly  alike  .  .  . 
then  why  was  philosophy  so  fascinating? 

"You  will  lose  your  colour,  my  child,  and  get 
protuberances  on  your  brow." 

"What  then?" 

St.  Pancras  clock  struck  midnight  as  she  reached 
home.  The  house  was  in  darkness.  She  went  noise- 
lessly up  the  first  two  flights  and  forward,  welcomed, 
towards  the  blue  glimmer  of  street  lamps  showing 
through  the  open  drawing-room  door.  It  was  long 
since  she  had  seen  the  room  empty.  His  absence 
had  restored  it  to  her  in  its  old  shadowy  character; 
deep  black  shadows,  and  spaces  of  faint  blue  light 
that  came  in  through  the  lace  curtains,  painting 
their  patterned  mesh  on  the  sheen  of  the  opposite 
walls.  The  old  familiar  presence  was  there  in  the 
hush  of  the  night,  dissolving  the  echoes  of  the  day 
and  promising,  if  she  stayed  long  enough  within  it, 
the  emergence  of  tomorrow,  a  picture,  with  long 
perspectives,  seen  suddenly  in  the  distance,  alone  upon 
a  bare  wall.     She  stood  still,  moving  rapidly  into  the 

— 207 — 


DEADLOCK 

neutral  zone  between  the  two  days,  further  and 
further  into  the  spaces  of  the  darkness,  until  every- 
thing disappeared,  and  all  days  were  far-off  strident 
irrelevances,  for  ever  unable  to  come  between  her 
and  the  sound  of  the  stillness  and  its  touch,  a  cool 
breath,  passing  through  her  unimpeded. 

She  could  not  remember  whether  she  had  first 
seen  him  rise  or  heard  the  deep  tones  coming  out  of 
the  velvety  darkness. 

"No,  you  did  not  startle  me.  I've  been  to  a 
lecture,"  she  said  sinking  in  a  sleep-like  stupor  into 
a  chair  drawn  up  beyond  the  light  of  the  window, 
opposite  his  own,  across  which  there  struck  a  shaft 
of  light  falling,  now  that  he  was  again  seated,  only 
on  his  face.  Miriam  gazed  at  him  from  within  the 
sheltering  darkness,  fumbling  sleepily  for  the  way 
back  to  some  lucid  recovery  of  the  event  of  her 
evening. 

"Ah.  It  is  a  pity  I  could  not  be  there."  His  words 
broke  into  the  stillness,  an  immensity  of  communi- 
cation, thrown  forward  through  their  unrestricted 
sitting,  in  the  darkness,  where,  to  bridge,  before 
tomorrow,  the  gap  made  by  his  evening's  absence,  he 
had  waited  for  her.  She  sat  silent,  her  days  once 
more  wound  closely  about  her,  an  endless  hospitable 
chain. 

"Tell  me  of  this  lecture." 

"Philosophy." 

"Tsa.     It  is  indeed  a  pity." 

"It  is  a  series"  .  .  .  are  you  sitting  there  already 
involved  in  engagements  .   .   .  cut  off;  changed  .  .   . 

"Excellent.  I  shall  most  certainly  come."  He 
was  looking  freely  ahead.     His  evening  had  not  in- 

—208— 


DEADLOCK 

terested  him  ...  he  had  gone  and  come  back,  his 
horizons  unenlarged  .  .  .  but  not  seeing  the  im- 
pression he  had  made  on  those  people ;  the  steps  they 
would  take. 

"It  would  be  splendid  for  you.  The  lecturer's 
English  wonderful.  The  way  the  close  thought  made 
his  sentences,  fascinated  me  so  much,  that  I  often 
missed  the  meaning  in  listening  to  the  rhythm;  like 
a  fugue."  Aren't  you  glad  you've  enlarged  your 
horizons?  Don't  you  know  what  people  are  .  .  . 
what  you,  a  person,  are  to  people?  Are  you  a 
person?  In  a  blankness,  life  streamed  up  in  spirals, 
vanishing,  leaving  nothing  .   .   . 

"That  is  not  bad.  Ah  I  should  not  have  paid 
this  visit.  It  was  also  in  some  respects  most  painful 
to  me."  Poor  little  man,  poor  little  lonely  man 
white-faced  and  sensitive,  in  a  world  without  indi- 
viduals; grown  and  formed  and  wise  without  realizing 
an  individual;  never  to  realize.  Audible  within  the 
darkness  was  a  singing,  hovering  on  spaces  of  warm 
rosy  light. 

"You  must  not  regret  your  visit." 

"Regret  no;  it  was  much  as  I  anticipated.  But  it 
is  disheartening,  this  actual  witnessing."  They  were 
disposed  of  in  some  way;  in  one  piece;  he  would 
have  a  formula. 

"What  are  they  like?" 

"Quite  as  I  expected;  good  simple  people,  kind  and 
hospitable.  I  have  been  the  whole  evening  there. 
Ah  but  it  is  sad  for  me  this  first  meeting  with  English 
Jews." 

"Perhaps  you  can  make  Zionists  of  them." 

"That  is  absolutely  impossible." 
— 209 — 


DEADLOCK 

"Did  you  talk  to  them  about  Zionism?" 

"It  is  useless  to  talk  to  these  people  whose  first 
pride  is  that  they  are  English." 

"But  they  are  not." 

"You  should  tell  them  so.  They  will  tell  you  they 
are  English,  of  the  Jewish  persuasion.  Ah  it  has 
revolted  me  to  hear  them  talk  of  this  war,  the  British 
Empire,  and  the  subject  races." 

"I  know;  disgusting;  but  very  English.  But  the 
British  Empire  has  done  a  good  deal  for  the  Jews 
and  I  suppose  the  Jews  feel  loyal." 

"That  is  true.  But  what  they  do  not  see  is  that 
they  are  not,  and  never  can  be,  English;  that  the 
English  do  not  accept  them  as  such." 

"That's  true  I  know;  the  general  attitude;  but 
there  are  no  disabilities.  The  Jews  are  free  in 
England." 

"They  are  free;  to  the  honour  of  England  in  all 
history.  But  they  are  nevertheless  Jews  and  not 
Englishmen.  Those  Jews  who  deny,  or  try  to  ignore 
<  .,,  ;-.-..  ceased  to  be  Jews  without  becoming  Enol'sli- 
men.  The  toleration  for  Jews,  moreover,  will  last 
only  so  long  as  the  Englishmen  remain  in  ignorance 
of  the  immense  and  increasing  power  and  influence 
of  the  Jew  in  this  country.  Once  that  is  generally 
recognized,  even  England  will  have  its  anti-semitic 
movement," 

"Never.  England  can  assimilate  anything.  Look 
at  the  races  that  have  been  built  into  us  in  the  past." 

"No  nation  can  assimilate  the  Jew." 

"What  about  inter-marriages?" 

"That  is  the  minority." 

"If   it  was   right   to  make   a  refuge   for  the  Jews 


DEADLOCK 

here  it  is  still  right  and  England  will  never  regret 
it." 

"Believe  me  it  is  not  so  simple.  Remember  that 
British  Jewry  is  perpetually  and  increasingly  rein- 
forced by  immigration  from  those  countries  where 
Jews  are  segregated  and  ever  more  terribly  perse- 
cuted. At  present  there  is  England,  both  for  the 
Jewish  speculator  and  the  refugee  pauper.  But  for 
those  who  look  at  facts,  the  end  of  this  possibility 
is  in  sight.  The  time  for  the  closing  of  this  last  door 
is  approaching." 

"I  don't  believe  England  will  ever  do  it.  How 
can  they?  Where  will  the  Jews  go?  It's  impossible 
to  think  of.  It  will  be  the  end  of  England  if  we 
begin  that  sort  of  thing." 

"It  may  be  the  beginning  of  Jewish  nationality. 
Ah  at  least  this  visit  has  reawakened  all  the  Zionist 
in  me." 

"It  is  a  glorious  idea."  His  evening  had  been 
eventful;  sending  him  back  to  the  freshness  of  the 
days  at  Basel.  It  was  then,  she  thought,  at  the 
moment  he  was  bathed  in  the  unceasing  beauty  of 
the  surroundings,  and  immersed  within  it,  in  inex- 
tinguishable association  with  the  students  of  the 
photographs,  poised  blissfully  irresponsible  in  a  per- 
manent boundless  beguilement,  himself  the  most 
untouched  of  all,  the  most  smoothly  rounded,  and 
elastically  surrendered  with  his  deep-singing,  child-like 
confident  face,  that  he  had  been  touched  and  shaped 
and  sent  forth;  his  future  set  towards  a  single  separate 
thing,  the  narrowest,  strangest,  most  unknown  of 
movements,  far  away  from  the  wide  European  life 
that  had  flowed  through  his  mind. 

— 211 — 


DEADLOCK 

"It  is  a  dream,  far-off.  In  England  hardly  even 
that."  There  was  a  blankness  before  him.  Uncon- 
scious of  his  youth,  and  his  radiating  charm,  distilled 
from  the  modern  world;  Frenchman,  Russian, 
philosophical  German-brained,  he  sat  there  white- 
faced,  an  old  old  Jew,  immeasurably  old,  cut  off, 
alone  with  his  conviction,  facing  the  blank  spaces 
of  the  future.  Why  could  he  not  be  content  to  be 
a  European?  She  swayed,  dragging  at  the  knot.  In 
his  deeply  saturated  intelligence  there  still  was  a 
balance  on  the  side  from  which  he  had  declared  to 
his  father,  that  he  was  first  a  man;  then  a  Jew.  By 
the  accidents  of  living,  this  might  be  cherished.  The 
voices  of  the  night  cried  out  against  the  treachery. 
She  glanced  remorsefully  across  at  him  and  recognized 
with  a  sharp  pang  of  pity,  in  his  own  eyes,  the  well- 
known  eyes  wide  open  towards  the  darkness  where 
she  sat  invisible,  the  look  he  had  described  .  .  . 
wehmiitig;  in  spite  of  his  sheltered  happy  prosperous 
youth  it  was  there;  he  belonged  to  those  millions 
whose  sufferings  he  had  revealed  to  her,  a  shadow 
lying  for  ever  across  the  bright  unseeing  confidence 
of  Europe,  hopeless.  And  now,  at  this  moment, 
standing  out  from  their  midst  the  strange  beautiful 
Old  Testament  figure  in  modern  clothes;  the  fine 
beautifully  moulded  Hebrew  head,  so  like  his 
own.   .   .   . 

"But  it  is  extraordinary;  that  just  when  everything 
is  at  its  worst,  this  idea  should  have  arisen.  .  .  .  It's 
all  very  well  for  people  to  laugh  at  Micawber." 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"The  man  who  is  always  waiting  for  something 
to  turn  up.     Things  do  turn  up,  exactly  at  the  right 

— 212 — 


DEADLOCK 

moment.  It  doesn't  mean  fatalism.  I  don't  believe 
in  laisser-aller  as  a  principle;  but  there  is  something 
in  things,  something  the  people  who  make  plans  and 
think  they  are  thinking  out  everything  in  advance, 
don't  know;  their  oblivion  of  it,  while  they  go  busily 
on  knowing  exactly  what  they  are  going  to  do  and 
why,  even  at  picnics,  is  a  terrible  thing.  And  some- 
how they  always  fail." 

"They  do  not  by  any  means  always  fail.  In  all 
concerted  action  there  must  be  a  plan.  Herzl  is 
certainly  a  man  with  a  plan." 

"Yes  but  it's  different;  his  idea  is  his  plan.  It 
isn't  clever.  And  now  that  it  is  here  it  seems  so 
simple.     Why  was  it  never  put  forward  before?" 

"The  greatest  Ideas  are  always  simple;  though  not 
in  their  resultants.  This  dream  however,  has  always 
been  present  with  Jews." 

"Of  course.  The  Zionist  Movement,  coming 
now,  when  it  is  most  wanted,  is  not  altogether  Herzl. 
It's  that  strange  thing,  the  thing  that  makes  you 
stare,  in  history.     A  sort  of  shape   .   .   ." 

"It  is  the  collective  pressure  of  life;  an  unseen 
movement.  But  if  you  feel  this  what  now  becomes 
of  your  individualism?  Eh?"  He  chuckled  his 
delight  .  .  .  passing  so  easily  and  leisurely  to  per- 
sonal things. 

"Oh  the  shape  doesn't  affect  the  individual,  in 
himself.  There's  something  behind  all  those  outside 
things  that  goes  on  Independently  of  them,  something 
much  more  wonderful." 

"You  are  wrong.  What  you  call  the  shape, 
affects  most  profoundly  every  individual  in  spite  of 
himself." 

—213— 


DEADLOCK 

"But  he  must  be  an  individual  to  be  affected  at  all, 
and  no  two  people  are  affected  in  the  same  way  .  .  . 
after  this  evening  I'm  more  of  an  individualist  than 
before.  It  is  relief  to  know  that  science  is  a  smaller 
kind  of  truth  than  philosophy.  The  real  difficulty 
is  not  between  science  and  religion  at  all,  but  between 
religion  and  philosophy.  Philosophy  seems  to  think 
science  assumes  too  much  to  begin  with  and  can  never 
get  any  further  than  usefulness." 

"Science  can  afford  to  smile  at  this." 

"And  that  religion  is  philosophically  unsound, 
though  modern  rehgious  controversy  is  metaphysical." 

^'y^//  controversy  depends  from  differeinces  in 
estimation  of  term  of  significations." 

"That's  why  arguments  are  so  maddening;  even 
small  discussions;  people  go  rushing  on,  getting  angrier 
and  angrier,  talking  about  quite  different  things, 
especially  men,  because  they  never  want  to  get  at  the 
truth,  only  to  score  a  point." 

"You  are  unjust;  many  men  put  truth  before 
any  other  consideration  whatsoever.  It  is  not  only 
unjust,  It  is  most  bad  for  you  to  hold  this  cynical 
estimation." 

"Well,  men  arguing  always  look  like  that  to  women. 
That's  why  women  always  go  off  at  a  tangent;  because 
they  reply  not  to  what  men  say  but  to  what  they  mean, 
which  Is  to  score  a  point,  which  anybody  can  do,  with 
practice,  and  while  they  hold  on  to  the  point  they 
mean  to  score,  they  are  revealed,  under  all  sorts  of 
circumstances,  all  sorts  of  things  about  them  are  as 
plain  as  a  pike-staff,  to  a  woman,  and  the  results  of 
these  things;  so  that  she  suddenly  finds  herself  saying 
something  that  sounds  quite  Irrelevant,  but  isn't." 

— 214 — 


'      DEADLOCK 

"Nevertheless  there  is  honourable  controversy, 
and  most  fruitful." 

"There  are  people  here  and  there  with  open  minds. 
Very  few." 

"The  point  is  not  the  few,  but  that  they  are^ 

"The  few  just  men,  who  save  the  city." 

"Exactly." 

"But  even  existence  is  not  quite  certain." 

'What 'istKisT' 

"Descartes  said,  my  existence  is  certain;  that  is  a 
fallacy." 

"If  this  is  a  fallacy  for  metaphysic,  so  much  the 
worse  for  metaphysic." 

"That  is  argumentum  ad  hominem." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  it." 

"But  what  can  you  put  in  place  of  metaphysic?" 

"Life  is  larger." 

"I  know.  I  know.  I  know.  Something  exists. 
Metaphysic  admits  that.  I  nearly  shouted  when  Dr. 
McHibbert  said  that.  It's  enough.  It  answers 
everything.  Even  to  have  seen  it  for  a  moment  is 
enough.  The  first  time  I  thought  of  it  I  nearly  died 
of  joy.  Descartes  should  have  said,  'I  am  aware 
that  there  is  something,  therefore  I  am.'  If  I  am 
other  people  are;  but  that  does  not  seem  to  matter. 
That  is  their  own  affair." 

"Beware  of  solipsism." 

"I  don't  care  what  it  is  called.  It  is  certainty. 
You  must  begin  with  the  individual.  There  we  are 
again."  There  was  an  end  to  the  conversation  that 
could  not  be  shared.  The  words  of  it  already 
formed,  intangibly,  waited,  ready  to  disappear,  until 
she  should  be  alone  and  could  read  them  on  a  clear 

—215— 


DEADLOCK 

background.  If  she  stayed  they  would  disappear 
irrevocably.  She  rose,  bidding  him  a  hurried  good- 
night, suddenly  aware  of  the  busily  sleeping  house- 
hold, friendly  guardian  of  this  wide  leisurely  night-life. 
He  too  was  aware  and  grateful,  picking  his  way 
cautiously  through  the  shadows  of  the  large  room, 
sheltered  from  his  loneliness,  invisibly  enclosed  by  the 
waiting  incommunicable  statement  that  yet  left  him, 
accusing  him  of  wilful  blindness,  so  cruelly  outside. 

"Materialism,"  scribbled  Miriam  eagerly,  "has 
the  recommendation  of  being  a  Monism,  and  there- 
fore a  more  perfect  explanation  of  the  universe  than 
a  Dualism  can  be.  .  .  .  And  Matter  forms  one 
great  whole,  persisting  through  many  ages.  Mind 
appears  in  the  form  of  separate  individuals,  isolated 
from  each  other  by  Matter,  and  each  ceasing,  so  far 
as  observation  goes,  after  a  very  few  years.  Also  the 
changes  which  we  can  observe  Mind  to  make  in 
Matter  are  comparatively  insignificant,  while  a  very 
slight  change  in  Matter  will  either  destroy  Mind,  or, 
at  least,  remove  it  from  the  only  circumstances  in 
which  we  can  observe  its  existence.  All  these  char- 
acteristics make  Matter  appear  much  more  powerful 
and  important  than  Mind." 

"I  consider  this  a  very  strong  reasoning,"  muttered 
Mr.  Shatov. 

"Ssh.  Wait."  He  was  sitting  intent,  with  an 
awakened  youthful  student's  face,  meeting,  through 
her  agency,  in  England,  a  first-class  intelligence.  He 
wouid  hear  the  beautiful  building  up,  strophe  and 
antistrophe,  of  the  apparently  unassailable  argument, 
the  pause,   and  then,   in   the   same   shapely  cadences, 

—216— 


DEADLOCK 

its  complete  destruction,  for  ever,  the  pleasant  face 
smiling  at  the  audience  above  the  ruins,  like  a  child 
who  has  just  shattered  a  castle  of  bricks. 

"Idealism  was  weakened  by  being  supposed  to 
be  bound  up  with  certain  theological  doctrines  which 
became  discredited.  All  these  things  account  for  the 
great  strength  of  materialism  some  years  ago.  There 
has  been  a  reaction  against  this,  but  the  extent  of  the 
reaction  has  been  exaggerated." 

"Quite  so." 

"Wait,  wait." 

"It  still  remains  the  belief  to  which  most  people 
tend  on  first  leaving  an  unreflecting  position.  And 
many  remain  there.  Science  is  a  large  element  in  our 
lives  now,  and  if  we  try  to  make  science  serve  as 
metaphysic,  we  get  materialism.  Nor  is  it  to  be 
wished — even  by  idealists — that  materialism  should 
become  too  weak.  For  idealism  is  seldom  really 
vigorous  except  in  those  who  have  had  a  serious 
struggle  with  materialism.  ...  It  would  be  very 
difficult  to  disprove  materialism,  if  we  once  accepted 
the  reality  of  matter  as  a  thing  in  itself.  But,  as 
we  saw  when  considering  dualism,  such  a  reality  of 
matter  is  untenable.  And  this  conclusion  is  obviously 
more  fatal  to  materialism  than  it  was  to  dualism. 
And  again,  if  materialism  is  true,  all  our  thoughts 
are  produced  by  purely  material  antecedents.  These 
are  quite  blind,  and  are  just  as  likely  to  produce 
falsehood  as  truth.  We  have  thus  no  reason  for  be- 
lieving any  of  our  conclusions — including  the  truth 
of  materialism,  which  is  therefore  a  self-contradictory 
hypothesis." 

"I  find  this  too  easily  stated." 
— 217 — 


DEADLOCK 

Then  God  is  proved  .  .  . 

"You  weren't  here  before.  Philosophy  is  not 
difficult.  It  is  common  sense  systematized  and  clar- 
ified." .  .  .  wayfaring  men,  though  fools,  shall  not 
err  therein.  It  is  not  what  people  think  but  what 
they  know.  Thought  is  words.  Philosophy  will 
never  find  words  to  express  life;  the  philosopher  is 
the  same  as  the  criminal? 

"He  seems  to  say  spirit  when  he  means  life" 

"What  is  life?" 

"Moreover  presentationism  is  incompatible  with 
the  truth  of  general  propositions — and  therefore 
with  itself,  since  it  can  only  be  expressed  by  a 
general  proposition.  And  closer  analysis  shows  that 
it  is  incompatible  even  with  particular  propositions, 
since  these  involve  both  the  union  of  two  terms  and 
the  use  of  general  ideas."  People  know  this  faintly 
when  they  say  things;  not  why;  but  faintly  every 
one  knows  that  nothing  can  be  said.  Then  why 
listen  any  more?  Because  if  you  know,  exactly,  that 
nothing  can  be  said  and  the  expert  reasons  for  it, 
you  know  for  certain  in  times  of  weakness,  how  much 
there  is  that  might  be  expressed  if  there  were  any 
way  of  expressing  it.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  need 
to  listen  any  more  since  God  was  proved  by  the  im- 
possibility of  his  absence,  like  an  invisible  star.  No 
one  seemed  at  all  disturbed;  the  lecturer  least  of  all. 
Perhaps  he  felt  that  the  effects  of  real  realization 
would  be  so  tremendous  that  he  could  not  face  them. 
The  thought  of  no  God  made  life  simply  silly.  The 
thought  of  God  made  it  embarrassing.  If  a  hand 
suddenly  appeared  writing  on  the  wall,  what  would 
he  do?     He  would  blush;  standing  there  as  a  com- 

—218— 


DEADLOCK 

petitor,  fighting  for  his  theories,  amongst  the  theories 
of  other  men.  Yet  if  there  were  no  philosophers, 
if  the  world  were  imagined  without  philosophy,  there 
would  be  nothing  but  theology,  getting  more  and 
more  superstitious. 

Everybody  was  so  calm.  The  calmness  of  insanity. 
Nobody  quite  all  there.  Yet  intelligent.  JVhat 
were  they  all  thinking  about,  wreathed  in  films  of 
intelligent  insanity;  watching  the  performance  in 
the  intervals  of  lives  filled  with  words  that  meant 
nothing  .  .  .  breath  was  more  than  words;  the  fact 
of  breathing  .  .   .  but  every  one  was  in  such  a  hurry. 

"I  would  ask"  .  .  .  one  horrified  glance  revealed 
his  profile  quivering  as  he  hesitated.  A  louder, 
confident,  dictatorial  English  voice  had  rung  out 
simultaneously  from  the  other  side  of  the  hall.  He 
would  have  to  sit  down,  shaken  by  his  brave  attempt. 
But  to  the  whole  evening,  the  deep  gentle  tones  had 
been  added,  welling  through  and  beyond  the  English- 
man's strident,  neat  proclamation,  and  containing, 
surely  every  one  must  hear  it,  so  much  of  the  answer 
to  the  essential  question.  The  chairman  hesitated, 
turned  decisively  and  the  other  man  sat  down. 

"What  the  lecturer  makes  of  the  psycho-physical 
parallelism?" 

He  drove  home  his  question  on  a  note  of  reproach- 
ful expostulation  and  sat  down  drawn  together,  with 
bent  head  and  eye  downcast,  but  listening  intently 
with  his  serenely  singing  child's  brow.  Miriam  was 
instantly  sorry  that  his  words  had  got  through,  their 
naked  definiteness  changing  the  eloquent  tone,  sharpen- 
ing it  to  a  weapon,  a  borrowed  weapon. 

"That's  it,"  she  breathed,  hoping  the  lecturer's 
— 219 — 


DEADLOCK 

answer  would  throw  some  light  on  the  meaning  of 
the  fascinating  phrase,  floating  before  her,  fresh  from 
far-off  philosophical  battle-fields,  bright  from  centuries 
of  contemplation,  flashing  out  now,  today,  in  Europe 
triumphantly,  in  desperate  encounters.  The  lecturer 
was  on  his  feet,  gleaming  towards  their  centre  of 
the  audience  his  recognition  of  the  clean  thrust. 

"The  correlation  between  physical  and  mental  gives 
an  empirical  support  to  materialism."  That  couldn't 
be  spirited  away.  The  scientists  swore  there  was  no 
break;  so  convincingly;  perhaps  they  would  yet  win 
and  prove  it.  "But  it  is  necessary  to  distinguish  be- 
tween metaphysic  and  psychology.  Psychology,  like 
physical  science,  is  to  be  put  to  the  score  of  our  knowl- 
edge of  matter." 

"In  which  he  doesn't  believe,"  scoffed  Miriam, 
distractedly  poised  between  Mr.  Shatov's  drama  and 
the  prospect  opening  within  her  mind. 

"I  find  this  a  most  arbitrary  statement." 

"Yes,  rather,"  murmured  Miriam  emphatically, 
and  waited  for  a  moment  as  if  travelling  with  him 
along  his  line  of  thought.  But  he  was  recovering, 
had  recovered,  did  not  seem  to  be  dwelling  or  moving 
in  any  relation  to  what  he  had  said,  appeared  to  be 
disinterestedly  listening  to  the  next  question. 

"Besides,"  she  said,  "the  empirical  method  is  a 
most  important  method,  and  jolly"   .   .   . 

"Poor  chap;  what  a  stupidity  is  this  qliestion." 
Miriam  smiled  solicitously,  but  she  had  travelled 
back  enraptured  across  nine  years  to  the  day,  now 
only  yesterday,  of  her  first  meeting  with  her  newly 
recovered  word.  Jevons.  From  the  first  the  sienna 
brown  volume  had  been  wonderful,  the  only  one 
of   the   English  books   that  had  any  connection  with 

— 220 — 


DEADLOCK 

life;  and  that  day,  Sunday  afternoon  prep  in  the 
dining-room,  with  the  laburnum  and  pink  may  out- 
side the  window  changing  as  she  read  from  a 
tantalizing  reproach  to  a  vivid  encirclement  of  her 
being  by  all  the  spring  scenes  she  had  lived  through, 
coming  and  going,  the  sight  and  scent  and  shimmer- 
ing movement  of  them,  as  if  she  moved,  bodiless  and 
expanded,  about  in  their  midst.  Something  about 
the  singing,  lifting  word  appearing  suddenly  on  the 
page,  even  before  she  had  grasped  its  meaning,  in- 
tensified the  relation  to  life  of  the  little  hard  motion- 
less book,  leaving  it,  when  she  had  read  on,  centred 
round  the  one  statement;  the  rest  remaining  in  shadow, 
interesting  but  in  some  strange  way  ill-gotten. 

The  recovery  of  the  forgotten  word  at  the  centre 
of  "the  philosophical  problems  of  the  present  day" 
cast  a  fresh  glow  of  reality  across  her  school-days. 
The  efforts  she  had  so  blindly  made,  so  indolently 
and  prodigally  sacrificing  her  chances  of  success  in 
the  last  examination,  to  the  few  things  that  had  made 
the  world  shine  about  her,  had  been  in  some  way 
right,  with  a  shapeliness  and  fruitfulness  of  their  own. 
Her  struggles  with  Jevons  had  been  bread  cast  upon 
the  waters  .  .  .  how  differently  the  word  now  fell 
into  her  mind,  with  "intuition"  happily  at  home  there 
to  keep  it  company.  If  materialism  could  be  supported 
empirically,  there  was  something  in  it,  something  in 
matter  that  had  not  yet  been  found  out.  .  .  .  Mean- 
time philosophy  proved  God.  And  Hegel  had  not 
brushed  away  the  landscape.  There  was  God  and 
the  landscape. 

"Materialism  isn't  dead  yet,"  she  heard  herself 
say  recklessly. 

— 221  — 


DEADLOCK 

"More.  Chemistry  will  yet  carry  us  further  than 
this  kind  of  metaphysical  surmising." 

Taking  part,  even  being  with  some  one  who  took 
part  in  the  proceedings,  altered  them.  Some  hidden 
chain  of  evidence  was  broken.  Things  no  longer 
stood  quietly  in  the  air  for  acceptance  or  rejection. 
The  memory  of  the  evening  would  be  a  memory  of 
social  life,  isolated  revelations  of  personality. 


— 222- 


CHAPTER    VIII 

WHEN  they  emerged  from  the  dusty  shabbi- 
ness  of  the  Euston  Road  it  was  suddenly  a 
perfect  June  morning.  Now  was  the  moment.  She 
opened  the  letter  unnoticed,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
sunlit  park-lined  vista.  .  .  .  "London  owes  much 
to  the  fact  that  its  main  thoroughfares  run  east  and 
west;  walk  westward  in  the  morning  down  any  one 
of  them,  or  in  the  afternoon  towards  the  east  and 
whenever  the  sun  shines  you  will  see"  .  .  .  and  with- 
out arousing  his  attention  hurriedly  read  the  few  lines. 
IWas  that  man  still  in  London,  trying  to  explain  it 
to  himself,  or  had  he  been  obliged  to  go  away,  or 
perhaps  to  die?  London  is  heaven  and  can't  be  ex- 
plained.    To  be  sent  away  is  to  be  sent  out  of  heaven. 

"I've  been  telling,"  useless  words,  coming  thin  and 
helpless  out  of  darkness  and  pressing  against  darkness 
...  a  desperate  clutching  at  a  borrowed  performance 
to  keep  alive  and  keep  on  .  .  .  "my  employers 
what  I  think  of  them  just  lately." 

"Excellent.     What  have  you  told?" 

His  unconscious  voice  steadied  her;  as  the  dark- 
ness drove  nearer  bringing  thoughts  that  must  not 
arrive.  The  morning  changed  to  a  painted  scene, 
from  which  she  turned  away,  catching  the  glance  of 
the  leaves  near-by,  trickily  painted,  as  she  turned  to 
steer  the  eloquence  flowing  up  in  her  mind. 

"Well,  it  was  a  whole  point  of  view  I  saw  suddenly 
—223— 


DEADLOCK 

in  the  train  coming  back  after  Easter.  I  read  an 
essay,  about  a  superannuated  clerk,  an  extraordinary 
thing,  very  simple  and  well  written,  not  in  the  least 
like  an  essay.  But  there  was  something  in  it  that 
was  horrible.  The  employers  gave  the  old  man  a 
pension,  with  humorous  benevolence.  He  is  so  sur- 
prised and  so  blissfully  happy  in  having  nothing  to  do 
but  look  at  the  green  world  for  the  rest  of  the  time, 
that  he  feels  nothing  but  gratitude.  That's  all  right, 
from  his  point  of  view,  being  that  sort  of  old  man. 
But  how  dare  the  firm  be  humorously  benevolent? 
It  is  no  case  for  humour.  It  is  not  funny  that  pros- 
perous people  can  use  up  lives  on  small  fixed  salaries 
that  never  increase  beyond  a  certain  point  no  matter 
how  well  the  employers  get  on,  even  if  for  the 
last  few  years  they  give  pensions.  And  they  don't 
give  pensions.  If  they  do,  they  are  thought  most 
benevolent.  The  author,  who  is  evidently  in  a 
way  a  thoughtful  man,  ought  to  have  known  this. 
He  just  wrote  a  thing  that  looks  charming  on  the 
surface  and  is  beautifully  written  and  is  really  per- 
fectly horrible  and  disgusting.  Well,  I  suddenly 
thought  employers  ought  to  know.  I  don't  know 
what  can  be  done.  /  don't  want  a  pension.  I  hate 
working  for  a  salary  as  it  is.  But  employers  ought  to 
kncuj  how  fearfully  unfair  everything  is.  They 
ought  to  have  their  complacency  smashed  up."  He 
was  engrossed.  His  foreign  intelligence  sympa- 
thized.    Then  she  was  right. 

"Anyhow.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  my  employers 
are  so  frightfully  nice.  But  the  principle's  the 
same,  the  frightful  unfairness.  And  it  happened 
that  just  before  I  went  away,  just  as  Mr.  Hancock 

— 224 — 


DEADLOCK 

was  going  off  for  his  holiday,  he  had  been  annoyed 
by  one  of  his  Mudie  books  going  back  before  he  had 
read  it,  and  no  others  coming  that  were  on  his  list, 
and  he  suddenly  said  to  me  in  a  grumbling  tone  'you 
might  keep  an  eye  on  my  Mudie  books.'  I  was 
simply  furious.  Because  before  I  began  looking 
after  the  books — which  he  had  never  asked  me  to  do, 
and  was  quite  my  own  idea — it  was  simply  a  muddle. 
They  all  kept  lists  in  a  way,  at  least  put  down  books 
when  they  hit  upon  one  they  thought  they  would  like, 
and  then  sent  the  whole  list  in,  and  never  kept  a 
copy,  and  of  course  forgot  what  they'd  put  down. 
Well,  I  privately  took  to  copying  those  lists  and 
crossing  off  the  books  as  they  came  and  keeping  on 
sending  in  the  rest  of  the  list  again  and  again  till 
they  had  all  come.  Well,  I  know  a  wise  person  would 
not  have  been  in  a  rage  and  wouild  meekly  have 
rushed  about  keeping  more  of  an  eye  than  ever.  But 
I  can't  stand  unfairness.  It  was  the  principle  of  the 
thing.  What  made  it  worse  was  that  for  some  time 
I  have  had  the  use  of  one  of  his  books  myself,  his 
idea,  and  of  course  most  kind.  But  it  doesn't  alter 
the  principle.  In  the  train  I  saw  the  whole  unfair- 
ness of  the  life  of  employees.  However  hard  they 
work,  their  lives  don't  alter  or  get  any  easier.  They 
live  cheap  poor  lives  in  anxiety  all  their  best  years 
and  then  are  expected  to  be  grateful  for  a  pension, 
and  generally  get  no  pension.  I've  left  off  living  in 
anxiety;  perhaps  because  I've  forgotten  how  to  have 
an  imagination.  But  that  is  the  principle  and  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  no  employers,  however  gen- 
erous and  nice,  are  entitled  to  the  slightest  special 
consideration.     And    I     came    back    and    practically 

— 225 — 


DEADLOCK 

said  so.  I  told  him  that  in  future  I  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  his  Mudie  books.  It  was  out- 
side my  sphere.  I  also  said  all  sorts  of  things  that 
came  into  my  head  in  the  train,  a  whole  long  speech. 
About  unfairness.  And  to  prove  my  point  to  him 
individually  I  told  him  of  things  that  were  unfair  to 
me  and  their  other  employees  in  the  practice;  about 
the  awfulness  of  having  to  be  there  first  thing  in 
the  morning  from  the  country  after  a  week-end. 
They  don't.  They  sail  off  to  their  expensive  week- 
ends without  even  saying  good-bye  and  without  even 
thinking  whether  we  can  manage  to  have  any  sort  of 
recreation  at  all  on  our  salaries.  I  said  that,  and 
also  that  I  objected  to  spend  a  large  part  of  a 
busy  Monday  morning  arranging  the  huge  bunches 
of  flowers  he  brought  back  from  the  country.  That 
was  not  true.  I  loved  those  flowers  and  could  always 
have  some  for  my  room ;  but  it  was  a  frightful  nuisance 
sometimes,  and  it  came  into  the  principle,  and  I 
wound  up  by  saying  that  in  future  I  would  do  only 
the  work  for  the  practice  and  no  odd  jobs  of  any 
kind." 

"What  was  his  reply?" 

"Oh  well,  I've  got  the  sack." 

"Are  you  serious?"  he  said  In  a  low  frightened 
tone.  The  heavens  were  clear,  ringing  with  morning 
joy;  from  far  away  In  the  undisturbed  future  she 
looked  back  smiling  upon  the  episode  that  lay  before 
her  growing  and  pressing. 

"I'm  not  serious.  But  they  are.  This  is  a 
solemn,  awfully  nice  little  note  from  Mr.  Orly;  he 
had  to  write,  because  he's  the  senior  partner,  to  In- 
form me  that  he  has  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
must   seek   a   more    congenial   post.     They  have   ab- 

— 226 — 


DEADLOCK 

solutely  made  up  their  minds.  Because  they  know 
quite  well  I  have  no  training  for  any  other  work, 
and  no  resources,  and  they  would  not  have  done  this 
unless  they  were  absolutely  obliged." 

"Then  you  will  be  obliged  to  leave  these  gentle- 
men?" 

"Of  course  long  before  I  had  finished  talking 
I  was  thinking  about  all  sorts  of  other  things;  and 
seeing  all  kinds  of  points  of  view  that  seemed  to 
be  stated  all  round  us  by  people  who  were  looking 
on.  I  always  do  when  I  talk  to  Mr.  Hancock. 
His  point  of  view  is  so  clear-cut  and  so  reasonable 
that  it  reveals  all  the  things  that  hold  social  life 
together,  and  brings  the  ghosts  of  people  who 
have  believed  and  suffered  for  these  things  into  the 
room,  but  also  all  kinds  of  other  points  of  view.  .  .  . 
But  I'm  not  going  to  leave.  I  can't.  What  else 
could  I  do?  Perhaps  I  will  a  little  later  on,  when 
this  is  all  over.  But  I'm  not  going  to  be  dismissed 
in  solemn  dignity.  It's  too  silly.  That  shows  you 
how  nice  they  are.  I  know  that  really  I  must  leave. 
Any  one  would  say  so.  But  that's  the  extraordinary 
thing;  I  don't  believe  in  those  things;  solemn  endings; 
being  led  by  the  nose  by  the  necessities  of  the  situation. 
That  may  be  undignified.  But  dignity  is  silly;  the 
back  view.  Already  I  can't  believe  all  this  solemnity 
has  happened.  It's  simply  a  most  fearful  bother. 
They've  managed  it  splendidly,  waiting  till  Saturday 
morning,  so  that  I  shan't  see  any  of  them  again. 
The  Orlys  will  be  gone  away  for  a  month  when  I  get 
there  today  and  Mr.  Hancock  is  away  for  the  week- 
end and  I  am  offered  a  month's  salary  in  lieu  of 
notice,    if    I    prefer    it.     I    had    forgotten    all    this 

— 227 — 


DEADLOCK 

machinery.  They're  perfectly  in  the  right,  but  I'd 
forgotten  the  machinery.  ...  I  knew  yesterday. 
They  were  all  three  shut  up  together  in  the  den, 
talking  in  low  tones,  and  presently  came  busily  out, 
each  so  anxious  to  pass  the  dismissed  secretary  in 
hurried  preoccupation,  that  they  collided  in  the  door- 
way, and  gave  everything  away  to  me  by  the  affable 
excited  way  they  apologized  to  each  other.  If  I  had 
turned  and  faced  them  then  I  should  have  said  worse 
things  than  I  had  said  to  Mr.  Hancock.  I  hated 
them,  with  their  resources  and  their  serenity,  com- 
placently pleased  with  each  other  because  they  had 
decided  to  smash  an  employee  who  had  spoken  out 
to  them." 

"This  was  indeed  a  scene  of  remarkable  signifi- 
cance." 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  once  told  Mr.  Hancock 
that  I  would  give  notice  every  year,  because  I  think 
it  must  be  so  horrible  to  dismiss  anybody.  But  I'm 
not  going  to  be  sent  away  by  machinery.  In  a  way 
it  is  like  a  family  suddenly  going  to  law." 

But  with  the  passing  of  the  park  and  the  coming 
of  the  tall  houses  on  either  side  of  the  road,  the 
open  June  morning  was  quenched.  It  retreated 
to  balconies,  flower-filled  by  shocked  condemning 
people,  prosperously  turned  away  towards  the  world 
from  which  she  was  banished.  Wimpole  Street,  Harley 
Street,  Cavendish  Square.  The  names  sounded  in 
her  ears  the  appeal  they  had  made  when  she  was 
helplessly  looking  for  work.  It  was  as  if  she  were  still 
waiting  to  come.   .   .   . 

Within  the  Saturday  morning  peace  of  the  de- 
serted  house   lingered   the   relief  that   had   followed 

— 22&— 


DEADLOCK 

their  definite  decision.  .  .  .  They  were  all  drawn  to- 
gether to  begin  again,  renewed,  ffeshly  conscious  of 
the  stabilities  of  the  practice ;  their  enclosed  co-oper- 
ating relationship.   .   .   . 

She  concentrated  her  mental  gaze  on  their  grouped 
personalities,  sharing  their  long  consultations,  acting 
out  in  her  mind  with  characteristic  gesture  and  speech, 
the  part  each  one  had  taken,  confronting  them  one 
by  one,  in  solitude,  with  a  different  version,  holding 
on,  breaking  into  their  common-sense  finalities.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  nothing;  meaningless  .  .  .  like  things  in 
history  that  led  on  to  events  that  did  not  belong  to 
them  because  nobody  went  below  the  surface  of  the 
way  things  appear  to  be  joined  together  but  are  not 
.  .  .  but  the  words  belonging  to  the  underlying  things 
were  far  away,  only  to  be  found  in  long  silences, 
and  sounding  when  they  came  out  into  conversations, 
irrelevant,  often  illogical  and  self-contradictory,  im- 
possible to  prove,  driving  absurdly  across  life  towards 
things  that  seemed  impossible,  but  were  true  .  .  . 
there  were  two  layers  of  truth.  The  truths  laid  bare 
by  common-sense  in  swift  decisive  conversations, 
founded  on  apparent  facts,  were  incomplete.  They 
shaped  the  surface,  made  things  go  kaleidoscoping 
on,  recognizable,  in  a  sort  of  general  busy  prosperous 
agreement;  but  at  every  turn,  with  every  application 
of  the  common-sense  civilized  decisions,  enormous 
things  were  left  behind,  unsuspected,  forced  under- 
ground, but  never  dying,  slow  things  with  slow  slow 
fruit  .  .  .  the  surface  shape  was  powerful,  every  one 
was  in  it,  that  was  where  free-will  broke  down,  in 
the  moving  on  and  being  spirited  away  for  another 
spell   from  the   underlying  things,   but  in   every  one, 

— 229 — 


DEADLOCK 

alone,  often  unconsciously,  was  something,  a  real 
inside  personality  that  was  turned  away  from  the 
surface.  In  front  of  every  one,  away  from  the  bridges 
and  catchwords,  was  an  invisible  plank,  that 
would  bear  .  .  .  always  .  .  .  forgotten  .  .  .  nearly 
all  smiles  were  smiled  from  the  bridges  .  .  .  nearly 
all  deaths  were  murders  or  suicides.   .  .   . 

It  would  be  such  an  awful  labour  ...  in  the  long 
interval  the  strength  for  it  would  disappear.  Thoughts 
must  be  kept  away.  Activities.  The  week-end 
would  be  a  vacuum  of  tense  determination.  That 
was  the  payment  for  headlong  speech.  Speech, 
thought-out  speech,  does  nothing  but  destroy.  There 
had  been  a  moment  of  hesitation  in  the  train,  swamped 
by  the  illumination  coming  from  the  essay.   .   .  . 

The  morning's  letters  lay  unopened  on  her  table. 
Dreadful.  Dealing  with  them  would  bring  un- 
consciousness, acceptance  of  the  situation  would 
leap  upon  her  unawares.  She  gathered  them  up  con- 
versationally, summoning  presences  and  the  usual 
atmosphere  of  the  working  day,  but  was  disarmed 
by  the  trembling  of  her  hands.  The  letters  were  the 
last  link.  Merely  touching  them  had  opened  the 
door  to  a  withering  pain.  When  the  appointments 
were  kept,  she  would  no  longer  be  in  the  house.  The 
patients  crowded  through  her  mind;  individuals, 
groups,  families,  the  whole  fabric  of  social  life  richly 
unrolled  day  by  day,  for  her  contemplation;  spirited 
away.  Each  letter  brought  the  sting  of  careless  in- 
different farewell. 

At  the  hall  door  James  was  whistling  for  a  hansom; 
it  was  a  dream  picture,  part  of  the  week  that  was 
past.     A    hansom    drew    up,    the    abruptly    reined-in 

—230— 


DEADLOCK 

horse  slipping  and  scrabbling.  Perhaps  there  was  a 
patient  hidden  in  Mr.  Leyton's  quiet  sounding  surgery. 
Once  more  she  could  watch  a  patient's  departure;  the 
bright  oblong  of  the  street  ...  he  was  away  for  the 
week-end.  There  was  no  patient.  It  was  a  dream 
picture.  Dream  figures  were  coming  downstairs.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Orly,  Mr.  Orly,  not  yet  gone;  coming  hurriedly 
straight  towards  her.  She  rose  without  thought, 
calmly  unoccupied,  watching  them  come,  one  person, 
swiftly  and  gently.  They  stood  about  her,  quite  near; 
silently  radiating  their  kindness. 

"I  suppose  we  must  say  good-bye, "said  Mrs. Orly. 
In  her  sweet  little  sallow  face  not  a  shadow  of  re- 
proach; but  Hvely  bright  sorrow,  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  say,  we're  awfully  sorry  about  this,"  said  Mr. 
Orly  gustily,  shifting  his  poised  bulk  from  one  foot 
to  the  other. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Miriam  seeking  for  the  things 
they  were  inviting  her  to  say.  She  could  only  smile 
at  them. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  whispered  Mrs.  Orly.  This  was 
the  Orlys;  the  reality  of  them;  an  English  reality; 
utterly  unbusinessHke;  with  no  codes  but  themselves; 
showing  themselves;  without  disguises  of  voice  or 
manner,  to  a  dismissed  employee ;  the  quality  of  Eng- 
land; old-fashioned. 

"I  know."  They  both  spoke  together  and  then 
Mrs.  Orly  was  saying,  "No,  Ro  can't  bear  strangers." 

"If  you  don't  want  me  to  go  I  shall  stay,"  she 
murmured.  But  the  sense  of  being  already  half 
reinstated  was  driven  away  by  Mrs.  Orly's  unaltered 
distress. 

"Ungrateful?"  The  gustily  panting  tones  were 
—231— 


DEADLOCK 

the  remainder  of  the  real  anger  he  had  felt,  listening 
to  Mr.  Hancock's  discourse.  They  had  no  grievance 
and  they  had  misunderstood  his. 

"No,"  she  said  coldly,  "I  don't  think  so." 

"Hang  it  all,  excuse  my  language,  but  y'know  he's 
done  a  good  deal  for  ye."  'AH  expectation  of  grati- 
tude is  meanness  and  is  continually  punished  by  the 
total  insensibility  of  the  obliged  person'  ...  we 
are  lucky;  we  ought  to  be  grateful";  meaning,  to  God. 
Then  unlucky  people  ought  to  be  ungrateful.   .   .   . 

"Besides,"  the  same  gusty  tone,  "it's  as  good  as 
telling  us  we're  not  gentlemen;  y'see?"  The  blue 
eyes  flashed  furiously. 

Then  all  her  generalizations  had  been  taken 
personally.  .   .  .      "Oh  well,"  she  said  helplessly. 

"We  shall  be  late,  laddie." 

"Surely  that  can  be  put  right.  I  must  talk  to 
Mr.  Hancock." 

"Well,  to  tell  y'honestly  I  don't  think  y'll  be  able 
to  do  anything  with  Hancock."  Mrs.  Orly's  dis- 
tressed little  face  supported  his  opinion,  and  her 
surprising  sudden  little  embrace  and  Mr.  Orly's 
wringing  handshake  meant  not  only  the  enduring 
depths  of  their  kindliness  but  their  pained  dismay  in 
seeing  her  desolate  and  resourceless,  their  certainty 
that  there  was  no  hope.  It  threw  a  strong  light.  It 
would  be  difficult  for  him  to  withdraw;  perhaps  im- 
possible; perhaps  he  had  already  engaged  another 
secretary.  .  .  .  But  she  found  that  she  had  not 
watched  them  go  away  and  was  dealing  steadily  with 
the  letters,  with  a  blank  mind  upon  which  presently 
emerged  the  features  of  the  coming  week-end. 

"Well  as  I  say "  Miriam  followed  the  linger- 

—232— 


DEADLOCK 

ing  held-in  cold  vexation  of  the  voice,  privately 
prompting  it  with  informal  phrases  fitting  the  picture 
she  held,  half-smiling,  in  her  mind,  of  a  moody,  un- 
certain, door-slamming  secretary,  using  the  whole 
practice  as  material  for  personal  musings,  liable 
suddenly  to  break  into  long  speeches  of  accusation, 
but  if  they  were  spoken,  they  would  destroy  the  thing 
that  was  being  given  back  to  her,  the  thing  that  had 
made  the  atmosphere  of  the  room.  "It  will  be  the 
most  unbusinesslike  thing  I've  ever  done ;  and  I  doubt 
very  much  whether  it  will  answer." 

"Oh  well.  There's  not  any  reason  why  it 
shouldn't."  She  smiled  provisionally.  It  was  not 
yet  quite  time  to  rise  and  feel  life  flowing  about  her 
in  the  familiar  room,  purged  to  a  fresh  austerity  by 
the  coming  and  passing  of  the  storm.  There  was  still 
a  rankling,  and  glorious  as  it  was  to  sit  talking  at  lei- 
sure, the  passing  of  time  piled  up  the  sense  of  ultimate 
things  missing  their  opportunity  of  getting  said.  She 
could  not,  with  half  her  mind  set  towards  the  terms, 
promising  a  laborious  future,  of  her  resolution  that  he 
should  never  regret  his  unorthodoxy,  find  her  way  to 
them.  And  the  moments  as  they  passed  gleamed  too 
brightly  with  confirmation  of  the  strange  blind  faith  she 
had  brought  as  sole  preparation  for  the  encounter, 
hovered  with  too  quiet  a  benediction  to  be  seized  and 
used  deliberately,  without  the  pressure  of  the  sudden 
inspiration  for  which  they  seemed  to  wait. 

"Well,  as  I  say,  that  depends  entirely  on  yourself. 
You  must  clearly  understand  that  I  expect  you  to 
fulfil  all  reasonable  requests  whether  referring  to  the 
practice  or  no,  and  moreover  to  fulfil  them  cheer- 
fully:' 

—233— 


DEADLOCK 

"Well,  of  course  I  have  no  choice.  But  I  can't 
promise  to  be  cheerful;  that's  impossible."  An  ob- 
stinate tightening  of  the  grave  face. 

"I  think  perhaps  I  might  manage  to  be  serene; 
generally.  I  can't  pretend  to  be  cheerful.  'Assume 
an  air  of  cheerfulness,  and  presently  you  will  be  cheer- 
ful, in  spite  of  yourself.'  Awful.  To  live  like  that 
would  be  to  miss  suddenly  finding  the  hidden  some- 
thing that  would  make  you  cheerful  for  ever." 

"Well  as  I  say." 

"You  see  there's  always  the  awful  question  of  right 
and  wrong  mixed  up  with  everything;  all  sorts  of  rights 
and  wrongs,  in  the  simplest  things.  I  can't  think  how 
people  can  go  on  so  calmly.  It  sometimes  seems  to 
me  as  if  every  one  ought  to  stop  and  do  quite  other 
things.  It's  a  nightmare,  the  way  things  go  on.  I 
want  to  stay  here,  and  yet  I  often  wonder  whether  I 
ought;  whether  I  ought  to  go  on  doing  this  kind  of 
work." 

"Well  as  I  say,  I  know  quite  well  the  work  here 
leaves  many  of  your  capabilities  unoccupied." 

"It's  not  that.     I  mean  everything  in  general." 

"Well — if  it  is  a  question  of  right  and  wrong,  I 
suppose  the  life  here  like  any  other,  offers  oppor- 
tunities for  the  exercise  of  the  Christian  virtues." 

Resignation;  virtues  deliberately  set  forth  every 
day  like  the  wares  in  a  little  shop;  and  the  world 
going  on  outside  just  the  same.  A  sort  of  sale  of 
mean  little  virtues  for  respectability  and  a  living;  the 
living  coming  by  amiable  co-operation  with  a  world 
where  everything  was  wrong,  turning  the  little  virtues 
Into    absurdity;    respectable    absurdity.     He    did   not 

—234— 


DEADLOCK 

think  the  practice  of  the  Christian  virtues  in  a  vacuum 
was  enough.  But  he  had  made  a  joke,  and  smiled 
his  smile.  .  .  .  There  was  no  answer  anywhere  in 
the  world  to  the  question  he  had  raised.  Did  he 
remember  saying  why  shouldn't  you  take  up  dentistry? 
Soon  it  would  be  too  late  to  make  any  change;  there 
was  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  stay  and  justify  things 
...  it  would  be  impossible  to  be  running  about  in  a 
surgery  with  grey  hair;  it  would  make  the  practice 
seem  dowdy.  All  dental  secretaries  were  young.  .  .  . 
The  work  .  .  .  nothing  but  the  life  all  round  it;  the 
existence  of  a  shadow  amidst  shadows  unaware  of 
their  shadowiness,  keeping  going  a  world  where  there 
were  things,  more  than  people.  The  people  moved 
sunlit  and  prosperous,  but  not  enviable,  their  secrets 
revealed  at  every  turn,  unaware  themselves,  they 
made  and  left  a  space  in  which  to  be  aware.   .   .  . 

"I  want  to  say  that  I  think  it  is  kind  of  you  to  let 
me  air  my  grievances  so  thoroughly." 

"Well,  as  I  say,  I  feel  extremely  uncertain  as  to 
the  advisability  of  this  step." 

"You  needn't,"  she  said  rising  as  he  rose,  and 
going  buoyantly  to  move  about  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  scattered  results  of  his  last  operation,  the 
symbols  of  her  narrowly  rescued  continuity.  She  was 
not  yet  free  to  touch  them.  He  was  still  wandering 
about  the  other  part  of  the  room,  Hngering  with 
thoughtful  bent  head  in  the  mazes  of  her  outrageous 
halting  statements.  But  a  good  deal  of  his  resent- 
ment had  gone.  It  was  something  outside  herself, 
something  in  the  world  at  large,  that  had  forced  him  to 
act  against  his  "better  judgment."     He  was  still  angry 

—235— 


DEADLOCK 

and  feeling  a  little  shorn,  faced,  in  the  very  presence 
of  the  offender,  with  the  necessity  of  disposing  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  driven  into  inconsistency. 

Miriam  drew  a  deep  sigh,  clearing  her  personal 
air  of  the  burden  of  conflict.  Was  it  an  affront? 
It  had  sounded  to  her  like  a  song.  His  thoughts 
must  be  saying,  well,  there  you  are,  it's  all  very  well 
to  throw  it  all  off  like  that.  His  pose  stiffened  into 
a  suggested  animation  with  regard  to  work  delayed. 
If  only  now  there  could  be  an  opportunity  for  one  of 
his  humorous  remarks  so  that  she  could  laugh  herself 
back  into  their  indestructible  impersonal  relationship. 
It  was,  she  thought,  prophetically  watching  his 
gloriously  inevitable  recovery,  partly  his  unconscious 
resentment  of  the  blow  she  had  struck  at  their  good 
understanding  that  had  made  him  so  repeatedly  de- 
clare that  if  they  started  again  it  must  be  on  a  new 
footing;  that  all  possibility  of  spontaneity  between 
them  had  been  destroyed. 

How  could  it  be,  with  the  events  of  daily  life  per- 
petually building  it  afresh? 


— 236 — 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  power  of  London  to  obliterate  personal 
affairs  depended  upon  unlimited  freedom  to 
be  still.  The  worst  suffering  in  the  days  of  un- 
certainty had  been  the  thought  of  movements  that 
would  make  time  move.  .  .  .  Now  that  the  stillness 
had  returned,  life  was  going  on,  dancing,  flowing, 
looping  out  in  all  directions  able  to  bear  its  periods 
of  torment  in  the  strength  of  its  certainty  of  recovery, 
so  long  as  time  stayed  still.  Life  ceased  when  time 
moved  on.  Out  in  the  world  life  was  ceasing  all  the 
time.  All  the  time  people  were  helplessly  doing 
things  that  made  time  move;  growing  up,  old  people 
growing  onwards,  with  death  suddenly  in  sight,  rushing 
here  and  there  with  words  that  had  lost  their  meaning, 
dodging  and  crouching  no  matter  how  ridiculously, 
to  avoid  facing  it.  Young  men  died  in  advance ;  it  was 
visible  in  their  faces,  when  they  took  degrees  and 
sat  down  to  tasks  that  made  time  begin  to  move; 
never  again  free  from  its  movement,  always  listen- 
ing and  looking  for  the  stillness  they  had  lost.  .  .  . 
But  why  is  the  world  which  produces  them  so  fresh 
and  real  and  free,  and  then  seizes  and  makes  them 
dead  old  leaves  whirled  along  by  time,  so  different 
to  people  alone  In  themselves  when  time  is  not 
moving?     People    in    themselves    want    nothing    but 

—237— 


DEADLOCK 

reality.  Why  can't  reality  exist  in  the  world?  All 
the  things  that  happen  produce  friction  because  they 
distract  people  from  the  reality  they  are  unconsciously 
looking  for.  That  is  why  there  are  everywhere 
torrents  of  speech.  If  she  had  not  read  all  those 
old  words  in  the  train  and  had  been  silent.  Silence 
is  reality.  Life  ought  to  be  lived  on  a  basis  of 
silence,  where  truth  blossoms.  Why  isn't  such  an 
urgent  thing  known?  Life  would  become  like  the 
individual;  alive  ...  it  would  show,  inside  and  out, 
and  people  would  leave  off  talking  so  much.  Life 
does  show,  seen  from  far  off,  pouring  down  into  still- 
ness. But  the  contemplation  of  it,  not  caring  for  pain 
or  suffering  except  as  part  of  a  picture,  which  no  one 
who  is  in  the  picture  can  see,  seems  mean.  Old 
women  sitting  in  corners,  suddenly  making  irrelevant 
remarks  and  chuckling,  see;  they  make  a  stillness  of 
reality,  a  mind  picture  that  does  not  care,  out  of  the 
rush  of  life.  Perhaps  they  do  not  fear  death.  Per- 
haps people  who  don't  take  part  don't  fear  death  .  .  . 
the  outsider  sees  most  of  the  game;  but  that  means 
a  cynical  man  who  does  not  care  for  anything;  body 
and  mind  without  soul.  Lying  dead  at  last,  with 
reality  left  unnoticed  on  his  dressing-table,  along  the 
window  sill,  along  the  edge  of  things  outside  the 
window.   .   .   . 

But  one  day  in  the  future  time  would  move,  by 
itself,  not  through  anything  one  did,  and  there  would 
be  no  more  life.  .  .  .  She  looked  up  hurriedly  toward 
the  changing  voice.  He  was  no  longer  reading  with 
a  face  that  showed  his  thoughts  wandering  far 
away. 

"The  thought  of  death  is,  throughout  life,  entirely 
-238- 


DEADLOCK 

absent  from  the  mind  of  the  healthy  man."  His 
briUiant  thought  filled  eyes  shone  towards  her  at  the 
end  of  the  sentence. 

"There  is  indeed  a  vulgarity   in  perfect  health," 
he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  she  said  hurriedly,  carrying  off  the  statement 
for  examination,  as  peacefully  he  went  on  reading. 
What  did  vulgarity  mean,  or  perfect  health?  No- 
body knew.  Dante  ennobled  the  vulgar  tongue.  .  .  . 
People  went  on  for  ever  writing  books  using  the  same 
words  with  different  meanings./  Her  eyes  returned 
to  the  relaxed  unconscious  form.  He  thought  too 
much  of  books.  Yet  it  did  not  appal  him  to  think 
of  giving  up  his  free  intellectual  life  and  taking  to 
work.  "I  shall  still  be  an  interested  amateur".  .  .  . 
He  would  go  on  reading,  all  his  life,  sitting  as  he  was 
sitting  now,  grave  and  beautiful;  with  a  mind  outspread 
in  a  mental  experience  so  wide  that  he  was  indifferent 
to  the  usual  ideas  of  freedom  and  advantage.  Yet 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  how  much  the  sitting 
like  this,  linked  to  the  world  by  its  deep  echo  in  the 
book,  was  a  realization  of  life  as  he  saw  it.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  this  serenity,  in  which  was 
accumulated  all  the  hours  they  had  passed  together, 
was  realization,  the  life  of  the  world  in  miniature, 
making  a  space  where  everything  in  human  experi- 
ence could  emerge  like  a  reflection  in  deep  water,  with 
its  proportions  held  true  and  right  by  the  tranquil 
opposition  of  their  separate  minds.  She  summoned 
onlookers,  who  instantly  recognized  themselves  in 
this  picture  of  leisure.  It  was  in  every  life  that  was 
not  astray  in  ceaseless  movement.  It  was  the  place 
where  everything  was  atoned.     He  fitted  placed  thus, 

—239— 


DEADLOCK 

happy,  without  problems  or  envies,  in  possession  of 
himself  and  his  memories  in  the  room  where  he  had 
voiced  them,  into  the  centre  of  English  life  where 
all  turned  to  good,  in  the  last  fastness  of  the  private 
English  mind,  where  condemnation  could  not  live. 
He  reinforced  it  with  a  consciousness  that  was  not  in 
the  English,  making  it  show  as  an  idea,  revealing  in 
plain  terms  their  failure  to  act  it  out.  .  .  .  Thus 
would  his  leisure  always  be.  But  it  was  no  part  of  her 
life.  In  this  tranquillity  there  was  no  security  ...  we 
will  always  sit  like  this;  we  must,  she  said  within  her- 
self impatiently  towards  his  unconsciousness.  Why  did 
he  not  perceive  the  life  there  was,  the  mode  of  life, 
in  this  sitting  tranquilly  together?  Was  he  thinking 
of  nothing  but  his  reading?  She  listened  for  a  mo- 
ment half  carried  into  the  quality  of  the  text.  There 
was  reality  there,  Spinoza,  by  himself,  sounding  as  if 
the  words  were  being  traced  out  now,  for  the  first 
time.  One  day  in  a  moment  of  blankness,  she  would 
read  it  and  agree  and  disagree  and  carry  away  some 
idea  and  lose  and  recover  it  and  go  on,  losing  and 
recovering,  agreeing  and  disagreeing.  .  .   . 

When  he  went  away  her  life  would  be  swept  clear 
of  intelligently  selected  books  and  the  sting  of  conflict 
with  them  .  .  .  that  would  not  matter;  perhaps; 
books  would  come,  somehow,  in  the  unexpected 
way  they  always  did.  But  it  was  impossible  to  face 
the  ending  of  these  settled  tranquil  elderly  evenings 
of  peaceful  unity,  the  quiet  dark-bearded  form,  sitting 
near,  happily  engrossed.   .   .   . 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  this?" 

"I  haven't  been  attending.  But  I  will  read  it  .  .  . 
some  time." 

— 240 — 


DEADLOCK 

"Ah,  it  is  a  pity.  But  tell  me  your  thoughts  at 
least." 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking  of  my  sisters." 

"Ah.  You  must  tell  me,"  and  again  with  unrelaxed 
interest  he  was  listening  to  story  after  story,  finding 
strange  significances,  matter  for  envy  and  deep 
chuckles  of  appreciative  laughter. 


— 241 — 


CHAPTER  X 

WITH  a  parting  glance  at  Mr.  Shatov's  talked- 
out  indolent  vacuity,  she  plunged,  still 
waiting  in  the  attitude  of  conversation,  into  a  breath- 
less silence.  She  would  make  no  more  talk.  There 
should  be  silence  between  them.  If  he  broke  it,  well 
and  good;  in  future  she  would  take  measures  to 
curtail  the  hours  of  conversation  leading,  now  that 
she  was  at  home  in  possession  of  the  Russian  life 
and  point  of  view,  only  to  one  or  other  of  his  set 
of  quoted  opinions,  beyond  which  he  refused  to  move. 
If  not,  the  quality  of  their  silence  would  reveal  to 
her  what  lay  behind  their  unrelaxed  capacity  for  as- 
sociation. The  silence  grew,  making  more  and  more 
space  about  her,  and  still  he  did  not  speak.  It  was 
dismantling;  unendurable.  With  every  moment  they 
both  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  moving  quickly  towards 
the  quenching  of  all  their  interchange.  But  there 
was  no  doubt  now.  The  question  was  there  between 
them,  for  equal  contemplation.  His  easy  indolence 
had  fled;  his  usual  pallor  heightened,  and  he  sat  re- 
garding her  with  an  unhesitating  personal  gaze.  Her 
determination  closed  about  him,  blocking  his  way, 
filling  the  room.  He  must  emerge,  admit.  He  must 
at  least  see,  as  she  saw,  if  it  were  only  the  extent  of 
their  dependence  on  each  other.     He  knew  his  need. 

— 242 — 


DEADLOCK 

Perhaps  she  fulfilled  it  less  than  she  thought  ?  Perhaps 
it  was  hers  alone  .  .  .  His  multiplied  resources  made 
hers  humiliatingly  greater.  The  shrine  of  her  cur- 
rent consciousness  stood  before  her;  the  roots  of  her 
only  visible  future  planted  for  ever  within  it.  Los- 
ing it,  she  would  be  left  with  her  burden  of  being  once 
more  scattered  and  unhoused. 

He  rose,  bringing  her  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before 
her  ready  to  go  or  stay  as  she  should  choose,  heaping 
up  before  her  with  an  air  of  gently  ironic  challenge, 
the  burden  of  responsibility;  silently  offering  her  one 
of  his  borrowed  summaries,  some  irrelevant  and  phil- 
osophic worldly  wisdom.  But  it  was  what  he  felt. 
There  was  something  he  feared.  Alone,  he  would 
not  have  initiated  this  scene.  She  faltered,  driven 
back  and  disarmed  by  the  shock  of  an  overwhelming 
pity  .  .  .  unexpected  terrible  challenge  from  within, 
known  to  no  one,  to  be  accepted  or  flouted  on  her 
sole  eternal  responsibility.  ...  In  a  torture  of  accept- 
ance she  pressed  through  it  and  returned  remorseless 
to  her  place,  flooded  as  she  moved  by  a  sudden  knowing 
of  wealth  within  herself  now  being  strangely  quarried. 

The  long  moment  was  ending;  into  its  void  she 
saw  the  seemings  of  her  grown  life  pass  and  dis- 
appear. His  solid  motionless  form,  near  and  equal 
in  the  twilight,  grew  faint,  towered  above  her,  immense 
and  Invisible  in  a  swift  gathering  swirling  darkness 
bringing  him  nearer  than  sight  or  touch.  The  edges 
of  things  along  the  margin  of  her  sight  stood  for 
an  instant  sharply  clear  and  disappeared  leaving  her 
faced  only  with  the  swirling  darkness  shot  now  with 
darting   flame.     She    ceased    to    care   what    thoughts 

—243— 


DEADLOCK 

might  be  occupying  him,  and  exulted  in  the  marvel. 
Here  already  rewarding  her  Insistence,  was  payment 
in  royal  coin.  She  was  at  last,  in  person,  on  a  known 
highway,  as  others,  knowing  truth  alive.  She  stared 
expostulation  as  she  recognized  the  celebrated  nature 
of  her  experience,  hearing  her  own  familiar  voice  as  on 
a  journey,  in  amazed  expostulation  at  the  absence 
everywhere  of  simple  expression  of  the  quality  of  the 
state  ...  a  voyage,  swift  and  transforming,  a  sense 
of  passing  in  the  midst  of  this  marvel  of  flame-lit 
darkness,  out  of  the  world  In  glad  solitary  confidence 
with  wildly,  calmly  beating  morning  heart. 

The  encircling  darkness  grew  still,  spread  wide 
about  her;  the  moving  flames  drew  together  to  a  single 
glowing  core.  The  sense  of  his  presence  returned 
in  might.  The  rosy-hearted  core  of  flame  was  within 
him,  within  the  Invisible  substance  of  his  breast.  Ten- 
derly transforming  his  Intangible  expansion  to  the 
familiar  Image  of  the  man  who  knew  her  thoughts 
she  moved  to  find  him  and  marvel  with  him. 

His  voice  budded  gently,  but  with  the  same  quality 
that  had  flung  her  back  solid  and  alone  Into  the  cold 
gloom. 

"We  must  consider"  .  .  .  what  did  he  think  had 
happened?  He  had  kissed  a  foreign  woman.  Who 
did  he  think  was  hearing  him?  .  .  .  "what  you 
would  do  under  certain  circumstances."  The  last 
words  came  trembling,  and  he  sat  down  clearly 
visible  in  the  restored  blue  twilight;  waiting  with  willing 
permanence  for  her  words. 

"I  should  do  nothing  at  all,  under  any  circum- 
stances." 

"Do  not  forget  that  I  am  Jew." 
—244— 


DEADLOCK 

Looking  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  her  friends  Miriam 
saw  the  Russian,  standing  free,  beyond  Europe,  from 
the  stigma  of  "foreigner."  Many  people  would 
think,  as  she  had  in  the  beginning,  that  he  was  an 
intellectual  Frenchman,  different  to  the  usual  "French- 
man"; a  big-minded  cosmopolitan  at  any  rate;  a  proud 
possession.  The  mysterious  fact  of  Jewishness 
could  remain  in  the  background  .  .  .  the  hidden 
flaw  ...  as  there  was  always  a  hidden  flaw  in  all 
her  possessions.  To  her,  and  to  her  adventure,  its 
first  step  now  far  away,  an  accepted  misery  power- 
less to  arrest  the  swift  rush  of  the  transforming 
moments,  it  need  make  no  difference. 

"Perhaps  it  shall  be  better  I  should  go  away." 
Where?  Into  the  world  of  people,  who  would 
seem  to  him  not  different  from  themselves,  see  his 
marvellous  surrendtered  charm,  catch  him,  without 
knowing  who  or  what  he  was.  Who  else  could  know 
"Mr.  Shatov"? 

"Do  you  want  to  go  away?" 
"I  do  not.     But  it  must  be  with  you  to  decide." 
"I  don't  see  why  you  should  go  away!' 
"Then  I  shall  stay.     And  we  shall  see." 
The   summer  lay  ahead,   unaltered;   the   threat  of 
change  gone  from  their  intercourse.     Tomorrow  they 
would  take  up  life  again  with  a  stability;  years  at  their 
disposal.     The  need  for  the  moment  was  to  have  him 
out  of  sight,  kill  the  past  hour  and  return  to  the  idea 
of  him,   already  keeping  her  standing,   with   relaxed 
power  of  attention  to  his  little  actual  pitiful  obstruc- 
tive   form,   in   an   independent   glow,    an   easy  wealth 
of    assurance    towards   life   whose   thronging   images, 

—245— 


DEADLOCK 

mysteries  of  cities  and  crowds,  single  fixed  groups 
of  known  places  and  inexorable  people  were  alight 
and  welcoming  with  the  sense  of  him.  She  bade  him 
a  gentle  good-night  and  reached  her  room,  unpursued 
by  thought,  getting  to  bed  in  a  trance  of  suspension, 
her  own  life  behind,  fagades  of  life  set  all  about 
her,  claiming  in  vain  for  troubled  attention,  and  sank 
at  once  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Putting  on  her  outdoor  things  next  morning,  left 
in  the  drawing-room  while  she  snatched  her  breakfast, 
she  was  immensely  embarrassed  to  find  him  standing 
silently  near.  The  woman  facing  her  in  the  mirror 
as  she  put  on  her  hat  was  the  lonely  Miriam  Hender- 
son, unendurably  asked  to  behave  in  the  special  way. 
For  he  was  standing  eloquently  silent  and  the  hands 
arranging  her  hat  trembled  reassuringly.  But  what 
was  she  to  do?  How  turn  and  face  him  and  get 
back  through  the  room  and  away  to  examine  alone 
the  surprises  of  being  in  love?  Her  image  was  dis- 
concerting, her  clothes  and  the  act  of  rushing  off  to 
tiresomely  engrossing  work,  inappropriate.  It  was 
paralysing  to  be  seen  by  him  struggling  with  a  tie. 
The  vivid  colour  that  rushed  to  her  cheeks  turned  her 
from  the  betraying  mirror  to  the  worse  betrayal  of  his 
gaze.  But  it  was  enough  for  the  moment,  which  she 
faced  out,  downcast,  yet  joyful  in  giving  what  belonged 
to  his  grave  eyes. 

"We  cannot  be  as  boy  and  girl,"  he  said  gently, 
"but  we  may  be  very  happy." 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sense  of  Inadequate  youth 
Miriam  stared  at  his  thought.  A  fragment  of  con- 
versation flashed  Into  her  mind.     Jewish  girls  married 

— 246 — 


DEADLOCK 

at  eighteen,  or  never.  At  twenty-one  they  were  old 
maids.  .  .  .  He  was  waiting  for  some  sign.  Her 
limbs  were  powerless.  With  an  immense  effort  she 
stretched  forth  an  enormous  arm  and  with  a  hand 
frightful  in  its  size  and  clumsiness,  tapped  him  on 
the  shoulder.  It  was  as  if  she  had  knocked  him  down, 
the  blow  she  had  given  resounding  through  the  world. 

He  bent  to  catch  at  her  retreating  hand  with  the 
attitude  of  carrying  it  to  his  lips,  but  she  was  away 
down  the  room,  her  breath  caught  by  a  little  gurgle 
of  unknown  laughter. 

He  was  at  the  end  of  the  street  in  the  evening, 
standing  bright  in  the  golden  light  with  a  rose  in 
his  hand.  For  a  swift  moment,  coming  down  the 
shaded  street  towards  the  open  light  she  denied  him, 
and  the  rose.  He  had  bought  a  rose  from  some 
flower-woman's  basket,  an  appropriate  act  suggested 
by  his  thoughts.  But  his  silent,  most  surrendered, 
most  child-like  gesture  of  offering,  his  man's  eyes 
grave  upon  the  rose  for  her,  beneath  uplifted  child- 
like plaintive  brows,  went  to  her  heart,  and  with  the 
passing  of  the  flower  into  her  hand,  the  gold  of  the 
sunlight,  the  magic  shifting  gleam  that  had  lain  always 
day  and  night,  yearlong,  in  tranquil  moments  upon 
every  visible  and  imagined  thing,  came  at  last  into  her 
very  hold.  It  had  been  love  then,  all  along.  Love 
was  the  secret  of  things. 

They  wandered  silently,  apart,  along  the  golden- 
gleaming  street.  She  listened,  amidst  the  far-off 
sounds  about  them,  to  the  hush  of  the  great  space 
in  which  they  walked,  where  voices,  breaking  silently 
in  from  the  talk  of  the  world,  spoke  for  her,  bringing 

—247— 


DEADLOCK 

out,  to  grow  and  expand  in  the  sunlight,  the  thoughts 
that  lay  in  her  heart.  They  had  passed  the  park, 
forgetting  it,  and  were  enclosed  in  the  dust-strewn 
narrowness  of  the  Euston  Road.  But  the  dust  grains 
were  golden,  and  her  downcast  eyes  saw  everywhere, 
if  she  should  raise  them,  the  gleam  of  roses  flowering 
on  the  air,  and  when,  their  way  coming  too  soon 
towards  its  familiar  end,  they  turned,  with  slow  feet, 
down  a  little  alley,  dark  with  voices',  the  dingy  house- 
fronts  gleamed  golden  about  her,  the  narrow  strip  of 
sky  opened  to  an  immensity  of  smiling  spacious  blue, 
and  she  still  saw,  just  ahead,  the  gleam  of  flowers  and 
heard  on  a  breath  purer  than  the  air  of  the  open 
country,  the  bright  sound  of  distant  water. 


-248— 


CHAPTER    XI 

FOR  many  days  they  spent  their  leisure  wandering 
in  the  green  spaces  of  London,  restored  to 
Miriam  with  the  frail  dream-like  wonder  they  had 
held  in  her  years  of  solitude,  deepened  to  a  perpetual 
morning  brightness.  She  recalled,  in  the  hushed  rec- 
onciliation of  the  present,  while  they  saw  and  thought 
in  unison,  breaking  their  long  silences  with  anecdotes, 
re-living  together  all  they  could  remember  of  childhood, 
their  long  exhausting,  thought-transforming  contro- 
versies. And  as  her  thoughts  had  been,  so  now,  in 
these  same  green  places  were  her  memories  trans- 
formed. 

She  watched,  wondering,  while  elderly  relatives, 
hated  and  banished,  standing,  forgotten  like  past 
nightmares,  far  away  from  her  independent  London 
life,  but  still  powerful  in  memory  to  strike  horror 
into  her  world,  came  forth  anew,  food  as  she  breath- 
lessly spoke  their  names  and  described  them,  for 
endless  speculation.  With  her  efforts  to  make  him 
see  and  know  them,  they  grew  alive  in  her  hands, 
significant  and  attractive  as  the  present,  irrecoverable, 
gone,  lonely  and  pitiful,  conquered  by  her  own  tri- 
umphant existence  in  a  different  world,  free  from 
obstructions,  accompanied,  understood.  Between  the 
movements  of  conversation  from  figure  to  figure,  a 
thread  of  reflection  wove  itself  in  continuous  repetition. 

—249— 


*'  DEADLOCK 

Perhaps  to  all  these  people,  life  had  once  looked  free 
and  developing.  Perhaps,  if  she  went  their  way,  she 
might  yet  share  their  fate.  Never.  She  was  mistress 
of  her  fate;  there  was  endless  time.  The  world  was 
changed.  They  had  never  known  freedom  or  the  end- 
lessness of  the  passing  moment.  Time  for  them  had 
been  nothing  but  the  continuous  pressure  of  fixed 
circumstances. 

Distant  parts  of  London,  whither  they  wandered 
far  through  unseen  streets,  became  richly  familiar, 
opening,  when  suddenly  they  would  realize  that  they 
were  lost,  on  some  scene,  stamped  as  unforgettably 
as  the  magic  scenes  of  holiday  excursions.  They 
lingered  in  long  contemplation  of  all  kinds  of  shop 
windows,  his  patient  unmoved  good-humour  while  she 
realized  his  comparative  lack  of  tastes  and  preferences, 
and  held  forth  at  length  on  the  difference  between 
style  and  quality,  and  the  products  of  the  markets, 
his  serene  effrontery  in  taking  refuge  at  last  behind 
the  quaintest  httle  tales,  satirical,  but  dreadfully  true 
and  illuminating,  disarmed  her  impatience  and  sent 
her  forward  in  laughter.  He  seemed  to  have  an  end- 
less supply  of  these  little  tales,  and  told  them  well,  with- 
out emphasis,  but  each  one  a  little  drama,  perfectly 
shaped  and  staged.  She  collected  and  remembered 
and  pondered  them,  the  light  they  shed  on  unfamiliar 
aspects  of  life,  playing  comfortingly  over  the  future. 
If  Judges  and  Generals  and  Emperors  and  all  sorts 
of  people  fixed  and  labelled  in  social  life  were  real'y 
absurd,  then  social  life,  with  him,  might  be  not  merely 
unaffrighting,  but  also  amusing.  At  the  same  time 
she  was  affronted  by  his  inclusion  of  English  society 

— 250 — 


DEADLOCK 

in  his  satirical  references.  There  were,  she  was  sure, 
hidden  and  active,  in  all  ranks  in  England,  a  greater 
proportion  of  people  than  in  any  country  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, who  stood  outside  his  criticism. 

She  avoided  the  house,  returning  only  when  the 
hour  justified  a  swift  retreat  from  the  hall  to  her  room; 
escape  from  the  dimly-lit  privacy  of  the  deserted 
drawing-room.  Not  again  could  she  suffer  his  near- 
ness, until  the  foreigner  in  him,  dipped  every  day  more 
deeply  into  the  well  of  English  feeling,  should  be 
changed.  When  she  was  alone,  she  moved,  thought- 
less, along  a  pathway  that  led  backwards  towards  a 
single  memory.  Far  away  in  the  distance,  coming 
always  nearer,  was  the  summer  morning  of  her  infancy, 
a  permanent  standing  arrested,  level  with  the  brilliance 
of  flower-heads  motionless  in  the  sunlit  air;  no  move- 
ment but  the  hovering  of  bees.  Beyond  this  memory 
towards  which  she  passed  every  day  more  surely,  a 
marvellous  scene  unfolded.  And  always  with  the 
unfolding  of  its  wide  prospects,  there  came  a  beautify- 
ing breath.  The  surprise  of  her  growing  comeliness 
was  tempered  by  a  sudden  curious  indifference.  These 
new  looks  of  hers  were  not  her  own.  They  brought 
a  strange  publicity.  She  felt,  turned  upon  her,  the 
welcoming  approving  eyes  of  women  she  had  con- 
temptuously neglected,  and  upon  her  own  face  the 
dawning  reflection  of  their  wise,  so  irritating  smile. 
She  recognized  them,  half  fearfully,  for  they  alone 
were  the  company  gathered  about  her  as  she  watched 
the  opening  marvel.  She  recognized  them  for  lonely 
wanderers  upon  the  earth.  They,  these  women,  then 
were  the  only  people  who  knew.  Their  smile  was 
the  smile  of  these  wide  vistas,  wrought  and  shaped, 

—251— 


DEADLOCK 

held  back  by  the  pity  they  turned  towards  the  blind 
life  of  men;  but  it  was  alone  in  its  vision  of  the  spaces 
opening  beyond  the  world  of  daily  life. 

The  open  scene,  that  seemed  at  once  without  her 
and  within,  beckoned  and  claimed  her,  extending  for 
ever,  without  horizons,  bringing  to  her  contemplating 
eye  a  moving  expansion  of  sight  ahead  and  ahead, 
earth  and  sky  left  behind,  across  flower-spread  plains 
whose  light  was  purer  and  brighter  than  the  light 
of  day.  Here  was  the  path  of  advance.  But  pursu- 
ing it  she  must  be  always  alone;  supported  in  the 
turmoil  of  life  that  drove  the  haunting  scene  away, 
hidden  beyond  the  hard  visible  horizon,  by  the  re- 
membered signs  and  smiles  of  these  far-off  lonely 
women. 


Between  them  and  their  second  week  stood  a 
promised  visit  to  the  Brooms;  offering  itself  each 
time  she  surveyed  it,  under  a  different  guise.  But 
when,  for  their  last  evening  together,  he  surprised  her, 
so  little  did  he  ever  seem  to  plan  or  reflect,  with  stall 
tickets  for  the  opera  she  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
swift  regardless  pressure  of  events.  Opera,  for  ever 
outside  her  means  and  forgotten,  descending  thus 
suddenly  upon  her  without  space  for  preparation  of 
mind,  would  seem  to  be  wasted.  Not  in  such  un- 
seemly haste  could  she  approach  this  crowning  orna- 
ment of  social  life.  She  was  speechless,  too,  before 
the  revelation  of  his  private  ponderings.  She  knew 
he  was  Indifferent,  even  to  the  theatre,  and  that  he 
could  not  afford  this  tremendous  outlay.  His  reck- 
lessness was  selfless;  a  great  planning  for  her  utmost 

— 252 — 


DEADLOCK 

recreation.  In  her  satisfaction  he  was  to  be  content. 
Touched  to  the  heart  she  tried  to  express  her  sense 
of  all  these  things,  much  hampered  by  the  dismayed 
anticipation  of  failure,  on  the  great  evening,  to 
produce  any  satisfying  response.  She  knew  she 
would  dislike  opera;  fat  people,  with  huge  voices, 
screaming  against  an  orchestra,  in  the  pretence  of 
expressing  emotions  they  had  never  felt.  But  he  as- 
sured her  that  opera  was  very  beautiful,  Faust  perhaps 
the  most  beautiful  and  charming  of  all,  and  drew  her 
attention  to  the  massed  voices.  To  this  idea  she  clung, 
in  the  interval,  for  enlightenment. 

But  after  spending  all  her  available  funds  on  an 
evening  blouse  and  borrowing  a  cloak  from  Jan  she 
found  herself  at  the  large  theatre  impressed  only  by 
the  collected  mass  of  the  audience.  The  sense  of  being 
small  and  alone,  accentuated  by  the  presence  of  little 
Mr.  Shatov,  neatly  in  evening  dress  at  her  side,  per- 
sisted, growing,  until  the  curtain  rose.  So  long  as  they 
had  wandered  about  London  and  sat  together  In  small 
restaurants,  the  world  had  seemed  grouped  about 
them,  the  vast  ignored  spectator  of  a  strange  romance. 
But  in  this  huge  enclosure,  their  small,  unnoticed,  un- 
questioned presences  seemed  challenged  to  account  for 
themselves.  All  these  unmoved  people,  making  the 
shut-in  air  cold  with  their  unconcern,  even  when  they 
were  hushed  with  the  strange  appealing  music  of  the 
overture,  were  moving  with  purpose  and  direction 
because  of  their  immense  unconsciousness.  Where 
were  they  going?  What  was  it  all  about?  What, 
she  asked  herself,  with  a  crowning  pang  of  desolation, 
as  the  curtain  went  relentlessly  up,  were  he  and  she 
to  be  or  do  in  this  world?     What  would  they  become, 

—253— 


DEADLOCK 

committed,    Identified,    two    small    desolate,    helpless 
figures,  with  the  crowding  mass  of  unconscious  life? 

"I  find  something  of  grandeur  in  the  sober 
dignity  of  this  apartment.  It  is  mediaeval  Germany 
at  its  best." 

"It  is  very  dark." 

"Wait,  wait.  You  shall  see  life  and  sunshine,  all 
in  the  most  beautiful  music." 

The  sombre  scene  offered  the  consolation,  suddenly 
insufl^cient,  that  she  had  found  in  the  past  in  sliding 
idly  into  novels,  the  restful  sense  of  vicarious  life.  She 
had  heard  of  a  wonderful  philosophy  in  Faust,  and 
wondered  at  Mr.  Shatov's  claim  for  its  charm.  But 
there  was,  she  felt,  no  space,  on  the  stage,  for  phil- 
osophy. The  scene  would  change,  there  was  "charm" 
and  sunshine  and  music  ahead.  This  scene  itself  was 
changing  as  she  watched.  The  old  man  talking  to 
himself  was  less  full  of  meaning  than  the  wonderful 
German  interior,  the  pointed  stonework  and  high, 
stained  windows,  the  carved  chairs  and  rich  old  manu- 
scripts. Even  as  he  talked,  the  light  from  the  night- 
sky,  pouring  down  outside  on  a  beautiful  old  German 
town,  was  coming  in.  And  presently  there  would  be 
daylight  scenes.  The  real  meaning  of  it  all  was  scenes, 
each  with  their  separate,  rich,  silent  significance.  The 
scenes  were  the  story,  the  translation  of  the  people 
the  actual  picture  of  them  as  they  were  by  them- 
selves behind  all  the  pother.  .  .  .  She  set  herself, 
drifting  In  solitude  away  from  the  complications  of 
the  present,  to  watch  Germany.  The  arrival  of 
Mephlstopheles  was  an  annoying  distraction  suggesting 
pantomine.  His  part  In  the  drama  was  obscured  by 
Mr.   Shatov's  whispered   eulogies   of  Chaliapin,    "the 

—254— 


DEADLOCK 

only  true  Mephistopheles  in  Europe."  It  certainly 
seemed  right  that  the  devil  should  have  "a  most  pro- 
found bass  voice."  The  chanting  of  angels  in  Par- 
adise, she  suggested,  could  only  be  imagined  in  high 
clear  soprano,  whereat  he  maintained  that  women's 
voices  unsupported  by  the  voices  of  men  were  not 
worth  imagining  at  all. 

"Pippa  passes.     It  is  a  matter  of  opinion." 

"It  is  a  matter  of  fact.  These  voices  are  without 
depth  of  foundation.     What  is  this  Pippa?" 

"And  yet  you  think  that  women  can  rise  higher, 
and  fall  lower,  than  men." 

She  walked  home  amidst  the  procession  of  scenes, 
grouped  and  blending  all  about  her,  free  of  their 
bondage  to  any  thread  of  story,  bathed  in  music,  be- 
ginning their  life  in  her  as  memory,  set  up  for  ever 
amongst  her  store  of  realities.  It  had  been  a  wonder- 
ful evening,  opera  was  wonderful.  But  the  whole 
effect  was  threatened,  as  it  stood  so  lovely  all  about  her 
in  the  night  air,  by  his  insistence  upon  a  personal  in- 
terpretation, surprising  her  in  the  midst  of  the  garden 
scene  and  renewed  now  as  they  walked,  by  little 
attempts  to  accentuate  the  relationship  of  their  linked 
arms.  Once  more  she  held  off  the  threatened  oblit- 
eration. But  the  scenes  had  retreated,  far  away 
beyond  the  darkness  and  light  of  the  visible  street. 
With  sudden  compunction  she  felt  that  it  was  she  who 
had  driven  them  away,  driven  away  the  wonders  that 
were  after  all  his  gift.  If  she  had  softened  towards 
him,  they  would  have  gone,  just  the  same.  ...  It 
was  too  soon  to  let  them  work  as  an  influence. 

Absurd,  too,  to  try  to  invent  life  which  did  not 
come  of  itself.     He  had  desisted  and  was  away,  fallen 

—255— 


DEADLOCK 

Into  his  thoughtful  forgetful  singing,  brumming  out 
shreds  of  melody  that  brought  single  scenes  vividly 
penetrating  the  darkness.  She  called  him  back  with 
a  busy  repentance,  carelessly  selecting  from  her  throng- 
ing impressions  a  remark  that  instantly  seemed 
meaningless. 

"Yes,"  he  said  heartily,  "there  is,  absolutely, 
something  echt,  kern-gesund  about  these  old-German 
things." 

That  was  it.  It  had  all  meant,  really,  the  same 
for  him;  and  he  knew  what  it  was  that  made  the 
charm;  admitting  it,  in  spite  of  his  strange  deep  dis- 
like of  the  Germans.  Kern-Gesundheit  was  not  a 
sufficient  explanation.  But  the  certainty  of  his  having 
been  within  the  charm  made  him  real,  a  related  part 
of  the  pageant  of  life,  his  personal  engaging  small 
attributes  her  own  undivided  share.  On  the  doorstep, 
side  by  side  with  his  renewed  silent  appeal,  she  turned 
and  met,  standing  free,  his  gentle  tremulous  salutation. 

For  a  moment  the  dark  silent  house  blazed  into 
light  before  her.  She  moved  forward,  as  he  opened 
the  door,  as  into  a  brightness  of  light  where  she  should 
stand  visible  to  them  both,  in  a  simplicity  of  golden 
womanhood,  no  longer  herself,  but  his  Marguerite, 
yet  so  differently  fated,  so  differently  identified  with 
him  in  his  new  simplicity,  going  forward  together, 
his  thoughts  and  visions  as  simple  as  her  own  in  the 
life  now  just  begun,  from  which  their  past  dropped 
away  grey  and  cold,  the  irrelevant  experience  of 
strangers. 

But  the  hall  was  dark  and  the  open  dining-room 
door  showed  blank  darkness.  She  led  the  way  in; 
she  could  not  yet  part  from  him  and  lose  the  strange 

— 256 — 


DEADLOCK 

radiance  surrounding  herself.  They  ought  to  go 
forward  now,  together,  from  this  moment,  shedding 
a  radiance.  To  part  was  to  break  and  mar,  forever, 
some  essential  irrecoverable  glory.  They  sat  side 
by  side  on  the  sofa  by  the  window.  The  radiance 
in  which  she  sat  crowned,  a  figure  visible  to  herself, 
recognizable,  humble  and  proud  and  simple,  back 
in  its  Christian  origin,  a  single  weak  small  figure,  trans- 
fixed with  light,  dreadfully  trusted  with  the  searing, 
brightly  gleaming  dower  of  Christian  womanhood,  was 
surrounded  by  a  darkness  unpenetrated  by  the  faint 
radiance  the  high  street  lamps  must  be  sending 
through  the  thick  lace  curtains.  This  she  thought  is 
what  people  mean  by  the  golden  dream;  but  it  is  not 
a  dream.  No  one  who  has  been  inside  it  can  ever 
be  the  same  again  or  quite  get  out.  The  world  it 
shows  is  the  biggest  world  there  is.  It  is  outer  space 
where  God  is  and  Christ  waits.  "I  am  very  happy, 
do  you  feel  happy?"  The  small  far-off  man's  voice 
sounded  out,  lost  in  the  impenetrable  darkness.  Yet 
it  was  through  him,  through  some  essential  quality 
in  him  that  she  had  reached  this  haven  and  starting 
place,  he  who  had  brought  this  smiting  descent  of 
certainties  which  were  to  carry  her  on  her  voyage  into 
the  unknown  darkness,  and  since  he  could  not  see  her 
smile,  she  must  speak. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said  gently.  She  must,  she 
suddenly  realized,  never  tell  him  more  than  that. 
His  happiness  was,  she  now  recognized,  hearing  his 
voice,  different  from  hers.  To  admit  and  acclaim  her 
own  would  be  the  betrayal  of  a  secret  trust.  If  she 
could  dare  to  lay  her  hand  upon  him,  he  might  know. 
But    they   were    too    separate.     And    if   he   were    to 

—257— 


DEADLOCK 

touch  her  now,  they  would  again  be  separated  for 
longer  than  before,  for  always.  "Good-night,"  she 
said,  brushing  his  sleeve  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers, 
"dear,   funny  little  man." 

He  followed  her  closely  but  she  was  soon  away 
up  the  familiar  stairs  in  the  darkness,  in  her  small 
close  room,  and  trying  to  chide  herself  for  her  in- 
adequate response,  while  within  the  stifling  air  the 
breath  of  sunlit  open  spaces  moved  about  her. 

But  in  the  morning  when  the  way  to  King's  Cross 
Station  was  an  avenue  of  sunlight,  under  a  blue  sky 
triumphant  with  the  pealing  of  church  bells,  his  sole 
conversation  was  an  attempt  to  induce  her  to  repro- 
duce the  epithet.  The  small  scrap  of  friendliness 
had  made  him  happy !  No  one,  it  seemed,  had  ever 
so  addressed  him.  His  delight  was  all  her  own.  She 
was  overcome  by  the  revelation  of  her  power  to  bless 
without  effort.  The  afternoon's  visit  now  seemed  a 
welcome  interval  in  the  too  swift  succession  of  dis- 
coveries. In  the  cool  noisy  shelter  of  the  station, 
Sunday  holiday-makers  were  all  about  them.  He 
was  still  charmingly  preening  himself,  set  off  by  the 
small  busy  crowd,  his  eye  wandering  with  its  familiar 
look,  a  childlike  contemplation  of  the  English  spectacle. 
To  Miriam's  unwilling  glance  it  seemed  for  obser- 
vation a  fruitless  field;  nothing  exhibited  there  could 
challenge  speculation. 

On  each  face,  so  naively  engrossed  with  immediate 
arranged  circumstance,  character,  opinion,  social  con- 
ditions, all  that  might  be  expected  under  the  small 
tests  of  small  circumstances,  was  plainly  written  in 
monotonous  reiteration.  Moving  and  going,  they 
could   go,    with   all   their  busy   eagerness,   no    further 

—258— 


DEADLOCK 

than  themselves.  At  their  destinations  other  similar 
selves  awaited  them,  to  meet  and  send  them  back,  un- 
changed; an  endless  circling.  Over  their  unchanging, 
unquestioned  world,  no  mystery  brooded  with  black 
or  golden  wings.  They  would  circle  unsurprised 
until  for  each  one  came  the  surprise  of  death.  It 
was  all  they  had.  They  were  dreadful  to  contemplate 
because  they  suggested  only  death,  unpondered  death. 
Her  eye  rested  for  relief  upon  a  barefooted  newspaper 
boy  running  freely  about  with  his  cry,  darting  head 
down  towards  a  shouted  challenge. 

"Before  you  go,"  Mr.  Shatov  was  saying.  She 
turned  towards  his  suddenly  changed  voice,  saw  his 
pale  face,  grave,  and  working  with  the  determination 
to  difficult  speech;  saw  him,  while  she  stood  listening 
to  the  few  tense  phrases  in  painful  admiration  of  his 
courage,  horribly  transformed,  by  the  images  he  evoked 
far  away,  immovable  in  the  sunshine  of  his  earlier  days. 
The  very  trembling  of  his  voice  had  attested  the  ag- 
onizing power  of  his  communication.  Yet  behind  it 
all,  with  what  a  calmness  of  his  inner  mind,  had  he 
told  her,  now,  only  now,  when  they  were  set  in  the 
bright  amber  of  so  many  days,  that  he  had  been  lost 
to  her,  for  ever,  long  ago  in  his  independent  past. 
The  train  was  drawing  in.  She  turned  away 
speechless. 

"Miriam,  Miriam,"  he  pleaded  in  hurried  shaken 
tones  close  at  her  side,  "remember,  I  did  not  know 
that  you  would  come." 

"Well,  I  must  go,"  she  said  briskly,  the  words 
sounding  out  to  her  like  ghostly  hammer-blows  upon 
empty  space.  Never  again  should  her  voice  sound. 
The   movement   of  getting  into   the   train  brought  a 

—259— 


DEADLOCK 

nerve-crisping  relief.  She  had  taken  the  first  step 
into  the  featureless  darkness  where,  alone,  she  was  to 
wait,  in  a  merciful  silence,  for  ever. 

"I  shall  meet  you  this  evening,"  said  his  raised 
voice  from  the  platform.  He  stood  with  bowed 
head,  his  eyes  gravely  on  her  unconsidering  gaze,  until 
the  train  moved  out.  She  set  her  teeth  against  the 
slow  movement  of  the  wheels,  grinding  it  seemed, 
smoke-befouled,  deliberate,  with  awful  circling  relent- 
lessness  over  her  prostrate  body,  clenched  together 
for  the  pang,  too  numb  to  feel  it  if  only  it  would 
come,  but  left  untouched. 

The  crushing  of  full  reahzation,  piling  up  behind 
her  numbness,  must  pass  over  her.  There  was  not 
much  time.  The  train  was  carrying  her  steadily 
onward,  and  towards  conversation  with  the  uncon- 
scious Brooms.  She  tried  to  relax  to  its  movement, 
to  hold  back  from  the  entanglements  of  thought  and 
regard  the  day  as  an  interval  outside  the  hurrying 
procession  of  her  life.  A  way  opened  narrowly  ahead, 
attainable  by  one  rending  effort,  into  a  silence,  within 
which  the  grey  light  filtering  through  the  dingy  win- 
dows on  to  the  grime-greyed  floor  offered  itself  with 
a  promise  of  reassurance.  It  was  known  to  her;  by 
Its  unvexed  communion  with  her  old  self.  One  free 
breath  of  escape  from  the  visions  she  was  holding 
clutched  for  inspection,  and  herself  would  be  given 
back  to  her.  This  awful  journey  would  change  to  an 
eternity  following  serenely  on  a  forgotten  masquerade. 
She  would  not  lose  her  knowing  that  all  solitary 
journeys  go  on  for  ever,  waiting  through  intervals,  to 
renew  themselves.  But  the  effort,  even  if  she  could 
endure  the  pain   of  it,  would  be  treachery  until  she 

—260— 


DEADLOCK 

had  known  and  seen  without  reservations  the  whole 
meaning  of  the  immovable  fact.  The  agony  within 
her  must  mean  that  somewhere  behind  the  mere  state- 
ments, if  she  could  but  get  through  and  discover  it, 
there  must  be  a  revelation  that  would  set  the  world 
going  again;  bring  back  the  vanquished  sunlight. 
Meanwhile  life  must  pause,  humanity  must  stay 
hushed  and  waiting  while  she  thought.  A  grey-shod 
foot  appeared  on  her  small  empty  patch  of  floor. 
With  the  fever  of  pain  that  flooded  her  she  realized 
that  she  could  go  neither  forward  nor  back.  Life 
pinned  her  motionless,  in  pain.  Her  eye  ran  up 
and  found  the  dreaming  face  of  a  girl;  the  soft  fresh 
lineaments  of  childhood,  shaped  to  a  partial  aware- 
ness by  some  fixed  daily  toil,  but  still,  on  all  she  saw, 
the  gleam  she  did  not  know  could  disappear,  did  not 
recognize  for  what  it  was,  priceless  and  enough. 
She  would  never  recognize  It.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  men  wrap  in  lies,  persisting  unchanged  through 
life,  revered  and  yet  odious  in  the  kindly  stupidity 
of  thoughts  fixed  immovably  on  unreahty,  the  gleam 
gone,  she  knew  not  why,  and  yet  avenged  by  her 
awful  unconscious  production  of  the  kind  of  social 
hfe  to  which  men  were  tied,  compelled  to  simulate 
life  In  her  obstinate,  smiling  fool's  .  .  .  hell.  The 
rest  of  the  people  In  the  carriage  were  aware,  in  the 
thick  of  conscious  deceits ;  playing  parts.  The  women, 
strained  and  defaced,  all  masked  watchfulness,  cut 
off  from  themselves,  weaving  romances  in  their  efforts 
to  get  back,  the  men  betraying  their  delight  in  their 
hidden  opportunities  of  escape  by  the  animation  be- 
hind the  voice  and  manners  they  assumed  for  the 
fixed  calcuable  periods   of  forced  association;   ready 

— 261 — 


DEADLOCK 

to  distract  attention  from  themselves  and  their 
hidden  treasures  by  public  argument,  if  accident 
should  bring  it  about,  over  anything  and  every- 
thing. 

At  least  she  saw.  But  what  was  the  use  of  not 
being  deceived?  How  in  the  vast  spread  of  humanity 
expose  the  sham?  How  escape,  without  surrendering 
life  itself,  treacherous  countenancing  of  the  fiendish 
spectacle?  What  good  would  death  do?  What  did 
"Eine  fiir  Viele"  do?  Brought  home  the  truth  to 
one  man,  who  probably  after  the  first  shock,  soon 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  been  mad. 

She  talked  through  lunch  to  the  Brooms  with 
such  an  intensity  of  animation  that  when  at  last  the 
confrontation  was  at  an  end  and  the  afternoon  begun 
in  the  shelter  of  the  dim  little  drawing-room,  she 
found  Grace  and  Florrie  grouped  closely  about  her, 
wrapped  and  eager  for  more.  She  turned,  at  bay, 
explaining  in  shaken  unmeditated  words  that  the 
afternoon  must  be  spent  by  her  in  thinking  out  a 
frightful  problem,  and  relapsed,  averted  swiftly  from 
their  sensitive  faces,  suddenly  pale  about  eyes  that 
reflected  her  distress,  towards  the  open  door  of  the 
little  greenhouse  leading  miserably  into  the  stricken 
garden.  They  remained  motionless  in  the  chairs  they 
had  drawn  close  to  the  little  settee  where  she  sat 
enthroned,  clearly  prepared  so  to  sit  in  silent  sym- 
pathy while  she  gazed  at  her  problem  in  the  garden. 
She  sat  tense,  but  with  their  eyes  upon  her  she  could 
not  summon  directly  the  items  of  her  theme.  They 
appeared  transformed  in  words,  a  statement  of  the 
case  that  might  be  made  to  them,  "any  one's"  state- 
ment  of   the   case,   beginning   with   "after   all";   and 

— 262 — 


DEADLOCK 

leaving  everything  unstated.  Applied  to  her  own 
experience  they  seemed  to  have  no  meaning  at  all. 
Summaries  were  no  good.  Actual  experience  must 
be  brought  home  to  make  anything  worth  commun- 
icating. "When  he  first  kissed  me,"  started  her 
mind  "those  women  were  all  about  him.  They  have 
come  between  us  for  ever."  She  flushed  towards  the 
garden.  The  mere  presence  in  her  mind  of  such  vile- 
ness  was  an  outrage  on  the  Broom  atmosphere.  She 
could  not  again  face  the  girls.  For  some  time  she 
sat,  driving  from  point  to  point  in  the  garden  the 
inexorable  fact  that  she  had  reached  a  barrier  she 
could  not  break  down.  She  could,  if  she  were  alone, 
face  the  possibility  of  dashing  her  life  out  against  it. 
If  she  were  to  turn  back  from  it,  she  would  be  rent 
in  twain,  and  how  then,  base  and  deformed  could  she 
find  spirit  to  face  any  one  at  all?  At  last,  still  with 
her  eyes  on  the  garden,  she  told  them,  she  must  go 
and  think  in  the  open  air.  They  cherished  and  in- 
dulged her  in  their  unaltered  way  and  she  escaped, 
exempted  from  coming  back  to  tea. 

Suppose,  said  the  innumerable  voices  of  the  road, 
as  she  wandered  down  it  relieved  and  eager  in  the 
first  moments  of  freedom,  he  had  not  told  you?  It 
was  sincere  and  fine  of  him  to  tell.  Not  at  all.  He 
wanted  to  have  an  easy  mind.  He  has  only  explained 
what  it  was  that  came  between  us  at  the  first,  and  has 
been  waiting  ever  since  to  be  there  again.  .  .  . 
"Remember;  I  did  not  kno-iv  you  would  come." 
Why  did  men  not  know?  That  was  the  strange 
thing.  Why  did  they  make  their  first  impressions  of 
women  such  as  would  sully  everything  that  came  after? 

—263 


DEADLOCK 

That  was  the  extraordinary  thing  about  the  average 
man  and  many  men  who  were  not  average  at  all. 
Why? 

The  answer  must  be  there  if  she  could  only  get 
through  to  it.  Some  immovable  answer.  The 
wrong  one  perhaps,  but  sufficient  to  frame  an  ir- 
reversible judgment.  There  was  an  irreversible  judg- 
ment at  the  heart  of  it  all  that  would  remain,  even 
if  further  fuller  truer  reasons  were  reached  later  on. 
Anything  that  could  take  the  life  out  of  the  sunlight 
was  wrong.  Every  twist  and  turn  of  the  many  little 
side  roads  along  which  she  made  her  way  told  her 
that.  It  was  useless  to  try  to  run  away  from  it.  It 
remained,  the  only  point  of  return  from  the  wild- 
erness of  anger  into  which  with  every  fresh  attempt 
at  thought  she  was  immediately  flung.  The  more 
angry  she  grew  the  further  she  seemed  to  move  from 
the  possibility  of  finding  and  somehow  expressing,  in 
words  that  had  not  sounded  in  her  mind  before,  the 
clue  to  her  misery. 

She  reached  the  park  at  tea-time.  Its  vistas  were 
mercifully  empty.  She  breathed  more  freely  within 
its  greenery.  Hidden  somewhere  here,  was  relief 
for  the  increasing  numbness  of  her  brain  and  the  drag 
of  her  aching  heart.  The  widening  sky  understood 
and  would  presently,  when  she  had  reached  the  state- 
ment that  lay  now,  just  ahead,  offer  itself  in  the  old 
way,  for  companionship.  Wandering  along  a  little 
path  that  wound  in  and  out  of  a  thicket  of  shrubs, 
she  heard  a  subdued  rumble  of  voices  and  came  in 
a  moment  upon  two  men,  bent-headed  in  conversation 
side  by  side  on  a  secluded  seat.  They  looked  up  at 
her  and  upon  their  shiny  German  faces,  and  in  the 

— 264 — 


DEADLOCK 

cold  rheumy  blue  eyes  beneath  their  unconscious  in- 
telligent German  foreheads,  was  the  horrible  leer  of 
their  talk.  Looking  up  from  it,  scanning  her  in  the 
spirit  of  the  images  of  life  they  had  evoked  in  their 
sequestrated  confidential  interchange,  they  identified 
her  with  their  vision.  She  turned  back  towards  the 
wide  empty  avenues.  But  there  was  no  refuge  in 
them.  Their  bleak  emptiness  reflected  the  thoughtless 
lives  of  English  men.  Behind  her  the  two  Germans 
were  immovably  there,  hemming  her  in.  They  were 
the  answer.  Sitting  hidden  there,  in  the  English  park, 
they  were  the  whole  unconscious  male  mind  of  Europe 
surprised  unmasked.  Thought  out  and  systematized 
by  them,  openly  discussed,  without  the  cloudy  reser- 
vations of  Englishmen,  was  the  whole  masculine  sense 
of  womanhood.  One  image;  perceived  only  with  the 
body,  separated  and  apart  from  everything  else  in 
life.  Men  were  mind  and  body,  separated  mind  and 
body,  looking  out  at  women,  below  their  unconscious 
men's  brows,  variously  moulded  and  sanctified  by 
thought,  with  one  unvarying  eye.  There  was  no 
escape  from  its  horrible  blindness,  no  other  life  in 
the  world  to  live  .  .  .  the  leer  of  a  prostitute  was 
.  .  .  reserved  .  .  .  beautiful,  suggesting  a  daily  life 
lived  Independently  amongst  the  Impersonal  marvels 
of  existence,  compared  to  the  headlong  desirous  look 
of  a  man.  The  greed  of  men  was  something  much 
more  awful  than  the  greed  of  a  prostitute.  She  used 
her  last  strength  to  wrench  herself  away  from  the 
hopeless  spectacle  and  wandered  impatient  and  thought- 
less In  a  feverish  void.  Far  away  from  this  barren 
north  London,  the  chosen  perfect  stage  for  the  last  com- 
pletion of  a   misery  as  wide  as  the  world,   was  her 

— 265 — 


DEADLOCK 

own  dream  world  at  home  in  her  room,  her  strange 
unfaihng  self,  the  lovely  world  of  lovely  things  seen 
in  silence  and  tranquillity,  the  coming  and  going  of 
the  light,  the  myriad  indescribable  things  of  which 
day  and  night,  in  solitude,  were  full,  at  every  moment ; 
the  marvellous  forgetfulness  of  sleep,  followed  by 
the  smiling  renewal  of  inexhaustible  sameness  .  .  . 
thought  flashed  in,  stabbing  her  weakness  with  the 
reminder  that  solitude  had  failed  and  from  its  failure 
she  had  been  saved  by  the  companionship  of  a  man; 
of  whom  until  today  she  had  been  proud  in  a  world 
lit  by  the  glory  and  pride  of  achieved  companionships. 
But  it  was  an  illusion,  fading  and  failing  more  swiftly 
than  the  real  things  of  solitude  .  .  .  there  was  no 
release  save  in  madness;  a  suddenly  descending  merciful 
madness,  blotting  everything  out.  She  imagined 
herself  raging  and  raving  through  the  park, 
through  the  world,  attacking  the  indifferent  sky  at 
last  with  some  final  outbreaking  statement,  something, 
somewhere  within  her  she  must  say,  or  die.  She 
gazed  defiance  upwards  at  the  cloudless  blue.  The 
distant  trees  flattened  themelves  into  dark  clumps 
against  the  horizon.  Swiftly  she  brought  her  eyes 
back  to  the  diminishing  earth.  Something  must  be 
said;  not  to  the  sky,  but  in  the  world.  She  grew 
impatient  for  Mr.  Shatov's  arrival.  If  only  she 
could  convey  to  him  all  that  was  in  her  mind,  going 
back  again  and  again  endlessly  to  some  central  un- 
answerable assertion,  the  truth  would  be  out.  Stated. 
At  least  one  man  brought  to  book,  arrested  and  illu- 
minated. But  what  was  it?  That  men  are  not 
worthy  of  women?  He  would  agree,  and  remain 
pleading.     That  men  never  have,   never  can,  under- 

—266— 


DEADLOCK 

stand  the  least  thing  about  even  the  worst  woman 
in  the  world?  He  would  find  things  to  say.  She 
plunged  back  groping  for  weapons  of  statement, 
amongst  the  fixities  of  the  world,  there  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  pressing  at  last  with  their  mocking 
accomplishment,  against  her  small  thread  of  existence. 
Long  grappling  in  darkness  against  the  inexorable 
images,  she  fell  back  at  last  upon  wordless  repudia- 
tion, and  again  the  gulf  of  isolation  opened  before 
her.  The  struggle  was  not  to  be  borne.  It  was 
monstrous,  unforgivable,  that  it  should  be  demanded 
of  her.  Yet  it  could  not  be  given  up.  The  smallest 
glance  in  the  direction  of  even  the  simulation  of  ac- 
ceptance, brought  a  panic  sense  of  treachery  that  flung 
her  back  to  cling  once  more  to  the  vanishing  securities 
of  her  own  untouched  imagination. 

When  at  last  he  appeared,  the  sight  of  the  familiar 
distinctive  little  figure  plunging  energetically  along, 
beard  first,  through  the  north  London  Sunday  evening 
crowd  drifting  about  the  park  gates,  their  sounds 
quenched  by  the  blare  of  the  Salvation  Army's  band 
marching  townwards  along  the  battered  road,  for  one 
strange  moment,  while  a  moving  light  came  across  the 
gravel  pathway  at  her  feet,  decking  its  shabby  fringe 
of  grass  with  the  dewy  freshness  of  some  remembered 
world  far  away  and  unknown  to  this  trampling  blind 
north  London,  she  asked  herself  what  all  the  trouble 
was  about.  What  after  all  had  changed?  Not  her- 
self, that  was  clear.  Walking  in  fevered  darkness 
had  not  destroyed  the  light.  But  he  had  joined  her, 
pulling  up  before  her  with  white  ravaged  face  and 
hands  stretched  silently  towards  her. 

"For  pity's   sake   don't   touch   me,"    she   cried   in- 
— 267 — 


DEADLOCK 

voluntarily  and  walked  on,  accompanied,  examining 
her  outcry.  It  was  right.  It  had  a  secret  knowledge. 
They  rode  in  silence  on  trams  and  bus.  Below  them 
on  the  dimly-lit  pavements  people  moved,  shadows 
broken  loose  and  scattered  in  the  grey  of  night.  Gas- 
lit,  talking  faces  succeeded  each  other  under  the  street 
lamps;  not  one  speaking  its  thoughts;  no  feeling  ex- 
pressed that  went  even  as  deep  as  the  screening  chatter 
of  words  in  the  mind.  But  presently  all  about  her, 
as  she  sat  poised  for  the  length  of  the  journey  between 
the  dead  stillness  within  her  and  the  noise  of  the 
silence  without,  a  world  most  wonderful  was  dawning 
with  strange  irrelevance,  forcing  her  attention  to  lift 
itself  from  the  abyss  of  her  fatigue.  Look  at  us, 
the  buildings  seemed  to  say,  sweeping  by  massed  and 
various  and  whole,  spangled  with  light.  We  are 
here.  We  are  the  accomplished  marvel.  Buildings 
had  always  seemed  marvellous;  and  in  their  moving, 
changing  aspects  an  endless  fascination,  except  in 
North  London,  where  they  huddled  without  distinction, 
defaced  in  feature  and  outline  by  a  featureless  blind 
occupancy.  But  tonight,  it  was  North  London  that 
was  revealing  the  marvel  of  the  mere  existence  of  a 
building.  North  Londoners  were  not  under  the  spell; 
but  it  was  there.  Their  buildings  rising  out  of  the 
earth  where  once  there  had  been  nothing,  proclaimed 
it  as  they  swept  dreaming  by,  making  roadways  that 
were  like  long  thoughts,  meeting  and  crossing  and 
going  on  and  on,  deep  alleyways  and  little  courts 
where  always  was  a  pool  of  light  or  darkness,  pouring 
down  from  their  secret  communion  with  the  sky  a 
strange  single  reality  upon  the  clothed  and  trooping 
multitude    below.     And    all    the    strange    unnoticed 

—268— 


DEADLOCK 

marvel  of  buildings  and  clothes,  the  even  more  marvel- 
lously strange  unnoticed  clothing  of  speech,  all  exist- 
ing alone  and  independent  outside  the  small  existence 
of  single  lives  and  yet  proclaiming  them  ...  an 
exclamation  of  wonder  rose  to  her  lips,  and  fell  back 
checked,  by  the  remembered  occasion,  to  which  for  an 
instant  she  returned  as  as  tranger,  seeing  the  two  figures 
side  by  side  chained  In  suspended  explanations  that 
would  not  set  them  free,  and  left  her  gazing  again, 
surrendered,  addressing  herself  with  a  deepening  ease 
of  heart  to  the  endless  friendly  strength  flowing  from 
things  unconsciously  brought  about.  It  brought  a 
balm  that  lulled  her  almost  to  sleep,  so  that  when  at 
last  their  journey  was  at  an  end  she  found  herself 
wordless  and  adrift  in  a  tiresome  pain,  that  must  be 
removed  only  because  it  blotted  out  marvels. 

He  began  at  once,  standing  before  her,  relating  in 
simple  unbroken  speech  the  story  of  his  student  days, 
without  pleading  or  extenuation;  waiting  at  the  end 
for  her  judgment. 

"And  that  first  photograph  that  I  liked,  was  before; 
and  the  other,  after." 

"That  is  so." 

"In  the  first  there  is  some  one  looking  out  through 
the  eyes;  in  the  other  that  some  one  has  moved  away." 

"That  Is  so.     I  agree." 

"Well,  can't  you  see?  Never  to  come  back. 
Never  to  come  back." 

"Miriam.  Remember  I  am  no  more  than  man. 
I  was  in  suffering  and  in  ignorance.  It  would  have 
been  better  otherwise.  I  agree  with  you.  But  that 
is  all  past.     I  am  no  more  that  man," 

"Can't  you  see  that  there  is  no  past?" 
— 269 — 


DEADLOCK 

"I  confess  I  do  not  understand  this." 

"It  is  crowding  all  round  you.  I  felt  it.  Don't 
you  remember?  Before  I  knew.  It  comes  between 
us  all  the  time.  I  know  now.  It's  not  an  idea;  or 
prudishness.  It's  more  solid  than  the  space  of  air 
between  us.     I  can't  get  through  it." 

"Remember  I  was  suffering  and  alone."  Some- 
where within  the  vibrating  tones  was  the  careless 
shouting  of  his  boyhood;  that  past  was  there  too;  and 
the  eager  lifting  voice  of  his  earlier  student  days,  still 
sometimes  alive  in  the  reverie  of  his  lifted  singing 
brows.  The  voice  had  been  quelled.  In  his  memory 
as  he  stood  there  before  her  was  pain,  young  lonely 
pain.  Within  the  life  thrown  open  without  reser- 
vation to  her  gaze,  she  saw,  confronting  her  de- 
termination to  make  him  suffer,  the  image  of  unhealed 
suffering,  still  there,  half  stifled  by  his  blind  obedience 
to  worldly  ignorant  advice,  but  waiting  for  the  moment 
to  step  forward  and  lay  its  burden  upon  her  own  un- 
willing heart,  leaving  him  healed  and  free.  Tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes,  blotting  him  out,  and  with  them 
she  sprang  forth  into  a  pathless  darkness,  conscious 
far  away  behind  her,  soon  to  be  obliterated  on  the 
unknown  shores  opening  ahead,  but  there  gladly  in 
hand,  of  a  debt,  signed  and  to  be  honoured  even  against 
her  will,  by  life,  surprised  once  more  at  this  darkest 
moment,  smiling  at  her  secretly,  behind  all  she 
could  gather  of  opposing  reason  and  clamourous 
protests  of  unworthiness.  "Poor  boy,"  she  gasped, 
gathering  him  as  he  sank  to  his  knees,  with  swift 
enveloping  hands  against  her  breast.  The  unknown 
woman  sat  alone,  with  eyes  wide  open  towards  the 
empty  air  above  his  hidden  face.  This  was  man; 
leaning   upon   her  with   his   burden   of  loneliness,    at 

— 270 — 


DEADLOCK 

home  and  comforted.  This  was  the  truth  behind 
the  image  of  woman  supported  by  man.  The  strong 
companion  was  a  child  seeking  shelter;  the  woman's 
share  an  awful  loneliness.     It  was  not  fair. 

She  moved  to  raise  and  restore  him,  at  least  to  the 
semblance  of  a  supporting  presence.  But  with  a 
sudden  movement  he  bent  and  caught  a  fold  of  her 
dress  to  his  lips.  She  rose  with  a  cry  of  protest, 
urging  him  to  his  feet. 

"I  know  now,"  he  said  simply,  "why  men  kneel 
to  women."  While  in  her  heart  she  thanked  heaven 
for  preserving  her  to  that  hour,  the  dreadful  words, 
invested  her  in  yet  another  loneliness.  She  seemed 
to  stand  tall  and  alone,  isolated  for  a  moment  from 
her  solid  surroundings,  within  a  spiral  of  unconsuming 
radiance. 

"No  one  ought  to  kneel  to  any  one,"  she  lied  in 
pity,  and  moved  out  restlessly  into  the  room.  We 
are  real.  As  others  have  been  real.  There  is  a 
sacred  bond  between  us  now,  ratified  by  all  human 
experience.  But  oh  the  cost  and  the  demand.  It 
was  as  if  she  were  carrying  in  her  hand  something 
that  could  be  kept  safe  only  by  a  life-long  silence. 
Everything  she  did  and  said  in  future  must  hide  the 
sacred  trust.  It  gave  a  freedom;  but  not  of  speech 
or  thought.  It  left  the  careless  dreaming  self  behind. 
Only  in  ceaseless  occupation  could  it  hold  its  way. 
Its  only  confidant  would  be  God.  Holding  to  it, 
everything  in  life,  even  difliculties,  would  be  trans- 
parent. But  seen  from  the  outside,  by  the  world,  an 
awful  mysteriously  persistent  commonplace.  It  was 
not  fair  that  men  did  not  know  the  whole  of  this 
secret  place  and  its  compact.  Why  was  God  In  league 
only  with  women? 

—271— 


CHAPTERXII 

IT'S  not  altogether  personal.  .  .  .  Until  it  is 
understood  and  admitted,  there  is  a  darkness 
everywhere.  The  life  of  every  man  in  existence,  who 
does  not  understand  and  admit  it,  is  perfectly 
senseless.  Until  they  know  they  are)  all  living  in 
vain. 

"What  on  earth  did  you  mean?"  she  said  as  soon 
as  the  omnibus  had  started. 

He   turned   a   startled  musing  face.     He  had  for- 
gotten. 

"What  have  I  said?" 

"Kindly  think." 

"Really  I  am  at  a  loss." 

"When    that    woman    collided    with    me,    crossing 
the  road." 

"Ah,  ah,  I  remember.     Well?" 

"You    pronounced   an   opinion." 

"It  is   not  my  opinion.     It  is  a  matter  of  ascer- 
tained fact." 

"Facts  are  invented  by  people  who  start  with  their 
conclusions  arranged  beforehand." 

"Perhaps  so." 

"Ah  well;  that  is  an  admission." 

"The   conclusion  is   amply  verified." 

"Where?" 

— 272 — 


DEADLOCK 

"I  speak  only  of  women  in  the  mass.     There  are  of 
course  exceptions." 

"Go  on,  go  on." 

"I     see    you    are    annoyed.     Let    us    leave    this 
matter." 

"Kindly  go  on." 

"There  is  nothing  more  to  say."  He  laughed. 
He  was  not  even  being  aware  that  it  was  a  matter 
of  life  and  death.  He  could  go  on  serenely  living  in 
an  idea,   that  turned  life  into  a  nightmare. 

"Oh  if  it  amuses  you."  He  was  silent.  The 
moments  went  beating  on.  She  turned  from  him  and 
sat  averted.  She  would  go  now  onward  and  onward 
till  she  could  get  away  over  the  edge  of  the  world. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  There  were  no  thoughts 
or  words  in  which  her  conviction  could  take  shape. 
Even  looking  for  them  was  a  degradation.  Besides, 
argument,  if  she  could  steady  herself  to  face  the  pain 
of  it,  would  not,  whatever  he  might  say,  even  dis- 
lodge his  satisfied  unconcern.  He  was  uneasy;  but 
only  about  herself,  and  would  accept  reassurance  from 
her,  without  a  single  backward  glance.  But  what  did 
their  personal  fate  matter  beside  a  question  so  all- 
embracing?  What  future  could  they  have  in  unac- 
knowledged disagreement  over  central  truth?  And 
if  it  were  acknowledged,  what  peace? 

The  long  corridor  of  London  imprisoned  her. 
Far  away  beneath  her  tumult  it  was  making  its  appeal, 
renewing  the  immortal  compact.  The  irregular 
facades,  dull  greys  absorbing  the  light,  bright  buffs 
throwing  it  brilliantly  out,  dadoed  below  with  a 
patchwork  of  shops,  and  overhead  the  criss-cross  of 
telephone  wires,  shut  her  away  from  the  low-hung  soft 

—273— 


DEADLOCK 

grey  sky.  But  far  away,  unfailing,  retreating  as  the 
long  corridor  telescoped  towards  them,  an  oblit- 
erating saffron  haze  filled  the  vista,  holding  her  in  her 
place. 

T,he  end  of  the  journey  brought  them  to  grey 
streets  and  winding  alleys  where  the  masts  and  rig- 
ging that  had  loomed  suddenly  in  the  distance, 
robbing  the  expedition  of  its  promise  of  ending  in 
some  strange  remoteness  with  their  suggestion  of 
blind  busy  worlds  beyond  London,  were  lost  to 
sight. 

"This  must  be  the  docks,"  she  said  politely. 

With  the  curt  permission  of  a  sentinel  policeman 
they  went  through  a  gateway  appearing  suddenly 
before  them  in  a  high  grey  wall.  Miriam  hurried 
forward  to  meet  the  open  scene  for  one  moment 
alone,  and  found  herself  on  a  little  quay  surrounding 
a  square  basin  of  motionless  grey  water  shut  in  by 
wooden  galleries,  stacked  with  mouldering  casks. 
But  the  air  was  the  air  that  moves  softly  on  still  days 
over  wide  waters  and  in  the  shadowed  light  of  the 
enclosure,  the  fringe  of  green  where  the  water 
touched  the  grey  stone  of  the  quay  gleamed  brilliantly 
in  the  stillness.  She  breathed  in,  in  spite  of  herself, 
the  charm  of  the  scene;  an  ordered  completeness,  left 
to  itself  in  beauty;  its  lonely  beauty  to  be  gathered 
only  by  the  chance  passer-by. 

"This  is  a  strange  romantic  place,"  said  Mr.  Shatov 
conversationally  by  her  side. 

"There     is     nothing,"     said     Miriam    unwillingly, 
feeling  her  theme  weaken  as  she  looked  away  from 
it  to  voice  well-known  words,  "Nothing  that  reveals 
more   completely  the  spiritual,"  her  voice  gave  over 

—274— 


DEADLOCK 

the  word  which  broke  into  meaninglessness  upon  the 
air,  "the  status  of  a  man  as  his  estimate  of  women." 

"I  entirely  agree.  I  was  a  feminist  in  my  college 
days.     I  am  still  a  feminist." 

Miriam  pondered.  The  word  was  new  to  her. 
But  how  could  any  one  be  a  feminist  and  still  think 
women  most  certainly  inferior  beings? 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "you  are  one  of  the  Huxleys." 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"Oh  well.  He,  impertinent  schoolboy,  graciously 
suggested  that  women  should  be  given  every  possible 
kind  of  advantage,  educational  and  otherwise;  say- 
ing almost  in  the  same  breath  that  they  could  never 
reach  the  highest  places  in  civilization;  that  Nature's 
Salic  Law  would  never  be  repealed." 

"Well,  how  is  it  to  be  repealed?" 

"I  don't  know  I'm  sure.  I'm  not  wise  enough  to 
give  instruction  in  repealing  a  law  that  has  never 
existed.  But  who  is  Huxley,  that  he  should  take  upon 
himself  to  say  what  are  the  highest  places  in  civili- 
zation?" 

"Miriam,"  he  said,  coming  round  to  stand  before 
her.  "We  are  not  going  to  quarrel  over  this  matter." 
She  refused  to  meet  his  eyes. 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  quarrelling,  or  even  dis- 
cussion. You  have  told  me  all  I  want  to  know.  I  see 
exactly  where  you  stand;  and  for  my  part  it  decides, 
many  things.  I  don't  say  this  to  amuse  myself  or 
because  I  want  to,  but  because  it  is  the  only  thing  I  can 
possibly  do." 

"Miriam.  In  this  spirit  nothing  can  be  said  at  all. 
Let  us  rather  go  have  tea." 

Poor  little  man,  perhaps  he  was  weary;  troubled  in 
—275— 


DEADLOCK 

this  strange  grey  corner  of  a  country  not  his  own, 
isolated  with  an  unexpected  anger.  They  had  tea 
in  a  small  dark  room  behind  a  little  shop.  It  was 
close  packed  with  an  odorous  dampness.  Miriam  sat 
frozen,  appalled  by  the  presence  of  a  negro.  He  sat 
nearby,  huge,  bent  snorting  and  devouring,  with  a 
huge  black  bottle  at  his  side.  Mr.  Shatov's  presence 
was  shorn  of  its  alien  quality.  He  was  an  Englishman 
in  the  fact  that  he  and  she  could  not  sit  eating  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  this  marshy  jungle.  But  they  were, 
they  had.  They  would  have.  Once  away  from  this 
awful  place  she  would  never  think  of  it  again.  Yet  the 
man  had  hands  and  needs  and  feelings.  Perhaps  he 
could  sing.  He  was  at  a  disadvantage,  an  outcast. 
There  was  something  that  ought  to  be  said  to  him. 
She  could  not  think  what  it  was.  In  his  oppressive 
presence  it  was  impossible  to  think  at  all.  Every  time 
she  sipped  her  bitter  tea  it  seemed  that  before  she  could 
have  replaced  her  cup,  vengeance  would  have  sprung 
from  the  dark  corner.  Everything  hurried  so.  There 
was  no  time  to  shake  off  the  sense  of  contamination. 
It  was  contamination.  The  man's  presence  was  an 
outrage  on  something  of  which  he  was  not  aware.  It 
would  be  possible  to  make  him  aware.  When  his  fear- 
ful face,  which  she  sadly  knew  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  regard  a  second  time,  was  out  of  sight,  the 
outline  of  his  head  was  desolate,  like  the  contemplated 
head  of  any  man  alive.  Men  ought  not  to  have  faces. 
Their  real  selves  abode  in  the  expressions  of  their 
heads  and  brows.  Below,  their  faces  were  moulded 
by  deceit.   .   .   . 

While    she    had   pursued   her   thoughts,    advantage 
had  fallen  to  the  black  form  in  the  corner.     It  was 

— 276 — 


DEADLOCK 

as  if  the  black  face  grinned,  crushing  her  thread  of 
thought. 

"You  see,  Miriam,  if  instead  of  beating  me,  you 
will  tell  me  your  thoughts,  it  is  quite  possible  that 
mine  may  be  modified.  There  is  at  least  nothing  of 
the  bigot  in  me."  \ 

"It  is  not  what  people  may  be  made  to  see  for  a 
few  minutes  in  conversation  that  counts.  It  is  the 
conclusions  they  come  to,  instinctively,  by  themselves." 
He  wanted  to  try  and  think  as  she  did  .  .  .  "chose 
attendrissante;  ils  se  ressemblaient"  .  .  .  life  .  .  . 
was  different,  to  everybody,  even  to  intellectual  male 
vain-boasters,  from  everybody's  descriptions;  there  was 
nothing  to  point  to  anywhere  that  exactly  corresponded 
to  spoken  opinions.  But  the  relieving  truth  of  this  was 
only  realized  privately.  The  things  went  on  being 
said.  'Men  did  not  admit  their  private  discoveries  in 
public.  It  was  not  enough  to  see  and  force  the  admit- 
tance of  the  holes  in  a  theory  privately,  and  leave  the 
form  of  words  going  on  and  on  in  the  world,  perpetu- 
ally parroted,  infecting  the  sky.  "Wise  women  know 
better  and  go  their  way  without  listening,"  is  not 
enough.  It  is  not  only  the  insult  to  women;  a  contempt 
for  men  is  a  bulwark  against  that,  but  introduces  sour- 
ness into  one's  own  life.  ...  It  is  the  impossibility 
of  witnessing  the  pouring  on  of  a  vast,  repeating  public 
life  that  is  missing  the  significance  of  everything. 

Yet  what  a  support,  she  thought  with  a  sideways 
glance,  was  his  own  gentleness  .  .  .  gentilesse  .  .  . 
and  humanity,  to  his  own  theory.  He  was  serene  and 
open  in  the  presence  of  this  central  bitterness.  If 
she  could  summon,  in  words,  convincing  evidence  of 
the  inferiority  of  man,  he  would  cheerfully  accept  it 

—277— 


DEADLOCK 

and  go  on  unmaimed.  But  a  private  reconstruction 
of  standards  in  agreement  with  one  person  would  not 
bring  healing.  It  was  history,  literature,  the  way  of 
stating  records,  reports,  stories,  the  whole  method  of 
statement  of  things  from  the  beginning  that  was  on 
a  false  foundation. 

If  only  one  could  speak  as  quickly  as  one's  thoughts 
flashed,  and  several  thoughts  together,  all  with  a 
separate  life  of  their  own  and  yet  belonging,  every- 
body would  be  understood.  As  it  was,  even  in  the  most 
favourable  circumstances,  people  could  hardly  com- 
municate with  each  other  at  all.      [ 

"I  have  nothing  to  say.     It  is  not  a  thing  that  can 
be  argued  out.     Those  women's  rights  people  are  the 
worst  of  all.     Because  they  think  women  have  been 
'subject'  in  the  past.     Women  never  have  been  subject. 
Never  can  be.     The  proof  of  this  is  the  way  men  have 
always   been  puzzled  and   everlastingly   trying   fresh 
theories;    founded   on   the   very   small   experience    of 
women  any  man  is  capable  of  having.     Disabilities, 
imposed  by  law,  are  a  stupid  insult  to  women,  but  have 
never  touched  them  as  individuals.     In  the  long  run 
they  injure  only  men.     For  they  keep  back  the  civili- 
zation of  the  outside  world,  which  is  the  only  thing 
men  can  make.      It  is  not  everything.     It  is  a  sort  of 
result,  poor  and  shaky  bcause  the  real  inside  civilization 
of  women,  the  one  thing  that  has  been  in  them  from 
the  first  and  is  not  in  the  natural  man,  not  made  by 
'things,'  is  kept  out  of  it.     Women  do  not  need  civili- 
zation.    It  is   apt  to  bore  them.     But  it  can  never 
rise  above  their  level.     They  keep  it  back.     That  does 
not  matter,   to   themselves.     But  it  matters  to  men. 

—278— 


DEADLOCK 

And  if  they  want  their  old  civilization  to  be  anything 
but  a  dreary-weary  puzzle,  they  must  leave  off  imagin- 
ing themselves  a  race  of  gods  fighting  against  chaos, 
and  thinking  of  women  as  part  of  the  chaos  they  have  to 
civilize.     There  isn't  any  'chaos.'     Never  has  been. 
It's  the  principal  masculine  illusion.     It  is  not  a  truth 
to  say  that  women  must  be  civilized.     jFeminists  are 
not  only  an  insult  to  womanhood.     They  are  a  libel 
on   the   universe."     In   the   awful   presence   she   had 
spoken  herself  out,  found  and  recited  her  best  most 
liberating  words.     The  little  unseen  room  shone,  its 
shining  speaking  up  to  her  from  small  things  imme- 
diately  under   her   eyes.     Light,    pouring    from   her 
■speech,  sent  a  radiance  about  the  thick  black  head  and 
its    monstrous    bronze    face.     He    might    have    his 
thoughts,   might  even   look   them,    from   the   utmost 
abyss  of  crude  male  life,  but  he  had  helped  her,  and 
his   blind   unconscious   outlines    shared   the   unknown 
glory.     But  she  doubted  if  she  would  remember  that 
thoughts  flowed  more  easily,  with  surprising  ease,  as 
if  given,   waiting,   ready  to  be   scanned   and   stated, 
when  one's  eyes  ceased  to  look  outwards.    If  she  could 
remember   it,   it  might  prove   to   be   the   solution   of 
social  life. 

"These  things  are  all  matters  of  opinion.  Where- 
as it  is  a  matter  of  indisputable  fact  that  in  the  past 
wome,n  have  been  subject." 

"If  you  believe  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  associ- 
ate. Because  we  are  living  in  two  utterly  different 
worlds." 

"On  the  contrary.  (This  difference  is  a  most  ex- 
excellent  basis  for  association." 

—279— 


DEADLOCK 

"You  think  I  can  cheerfully  regard  myself  as  an 
emancipated  slave,  with  traditions  of  slavery  for 
memory  and  the  form  of  a  slave  as  an  everlasting 
heritage?" 

"Remember  that  heredity  is  cross-wise.  You  are 
probably  more  the  daughter  of  your  father  .   .   ." 

^^That  won't  help  you,  thank  you.  If  anything  I 
am  my  mother's  son." 

"Ah — ah,  what  is  this,  you  are  a  son.  Do  you 
see?" 

"That's  a  piece  of  English  feudalism." 

"The  demands  of  feudalism  do  not  explain  a 
woman's  desire  for  sons." 

"That  is  another  question.  She  hopes  they  will 
give  her  the  understanding  she  never  had  from  their 
father.  In  that  I  am  my  mother's  son  for  ever.  If 
there's  a  future  life,  all  I  care  for  is  to  meet  her.  If 
I  could  have  her  back  for  ten  minutes  I  would  gladly 
give  up  the  rest  of  my  life.  ...  Is  heredity  really 
criss-cross?     Is  it  proved?"       • 

"Substantially." 

"Oh  yes.  Of  course.  I  know.  To  prevent  civili- 
zation going  ahead  too  fast!  I've  seen  that  some- 
where. Very  flattering  to  men.  But  it  proves  there's 
no  separate  race  of  men  and  women." 

"Exactly." 

"Then  how  have  men  the  face  to  go  on  with  their 
generalizations  about  women?" 

"You  yourself  have  a  generalization  about  women." 

"That's  different.  It's  not  about  brains  and  attain- 
ments. I  can't  make  you  see.  I  suppose  it's 
Christianity." 

—280— 


DEADLOCK 

"What  is  Christianity?  You  think  Christianity- 
is  favourable  to  women?  On  the  contrary.  It  is 
the  Christian  countries  that  have  produced  the  pros- 
titute and  the  most  vile  estimations  of  women  in  the 
world.  It  is  only  in  Christian  countries  that  I  find  the 
detestable  spectacle  of  men  who  will  go  straight  from 
association  with  loose  women  Into  the  society  of  in- 
nocent girls.  That  I  find  unthinkable.  .  .  .  With 
Jews  womanhood  has  always  been  sacred.  And  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  we  owe  our  persistence  as  a  race 
largely  to  our  laws  of  protection  for  women;  all  women. 
Moreover  in  the  older  Hebrew  civilization  women 
stood  very  high.  You  may  read  this.  Today  there 
is  a  very  significant  Jewish  wit  which  says  that  women 
make  the  best  wives  and  mothers  in  the  world." 

'"There  you  are.  No  Englishman  would  make  a 
joke  like  that." 

"Because  he  is  a  hypocrite." 

"No.  He  may,  as  you  say,  think  one  thing  and  say 
another;  but  long  long  ago  he  had  a  jog.  It  was 
Christianity.  Something  happened.  Christ  was  the 
first  man  to  see  women  as  individuals." 

"You  speak  easily  of  Christianity.  There  is  no 
Christianity  in  the  world.  It  has  never  been  imag- 
ined, save  in  the  brain  of  a  Tolstoy.  And  he  has 
shown  that  if  the  principles  of  Christianity  were 
applied,  cIvIHzatlon  as  we  know  it  would  at  once  come 
to  an  end." 

"There  may  not  be  much  Christianity.  But  Chris- 
tianity has  made  a  difference.  It  has  not  given  things 
to  women  that  were  not  there  before.  Nothing  can 
do  that.     But  It  has  shed  a  light  on  them  which  the 

—281— 


DEADLOCK 

best  women  run  away  from.  Never  imagine  I  am 
speaking  of  myself.  I'm  as  much  a  man  as  a  woman. 
That's  why  I  can't  help  seeing  things.  But  I'm  not 
really  interested.  JSfot  inside  myself.  Now  look  here. 
You  prefer  Englishwomen  to  Jewesses.  I  can't  bear 
Jewesses,  not  because  they  are  not  really  like  other 
women,  but  because  they  reflect  the  limitations  of  the 
Jewish  male.  They  talk  and  think  the  Jewish  man's 
idea  of  them.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  them  as 
individuals.  But  they  are  waiting  for  the  light  to  go 
up." 

"I  speak  always  of  these  assimilated  and  half- 
assimilated  English  Jewesses.  Certainly  to  me  they 
are  most  inimical." 

"More  so  than  the  Germans?" 

"In  a  different  way.  They  have  here  less  social 
disabilities.  But  they  are  most  absolutely  terre-a- 
terre." 

"Why  are  Russian  Jewesses  different?" 

"Many  of  them  are  idealist.  Many  live  altogether 
by  one  or  two  ideas  of  Tolstoy." 

"Why  do  you  smile  condescendingly?" 

"These  ideas  can  lead  only  to  revolution.  I  am  not 
a  revolutionary.  While  I  admire  everywhere  those 
who  suffer  for  their  ideals." 

"You  admit  that  Tolstoy  has  influenced  Russian 
Jewesses.  He  got  his  ideas  from  Christ.  So  you 
say.     I  did  not  know  he  was  religious." 

"It  is  a  later  development.  But  you  remember 
Levin.  But  tell  me,  do  you  not  consider  that  wife  and 
mother  is  the  highest  position  of  woman?" 

"It  is  neither  high  nor  low.  It  may  be  anything. 
If  you  define  life  for  women,  as  husbands  and  children, 

—282— 


DEADLOCK 

it  means  that  you  have  no  consciousness  at  all  where 
women  are  concerned." 

"There  is  the  evidence  of  women  themselves.     The 
majority  find  their  whole  life  in  these  things." 

"That    is    a    description,    from    outside,    by   men. 
When  women  use  it  they  do  not  know  what  they  say." 


—283- 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IT  was  strange  that  It  should  be  the  house  that 
had  always  caught  her  eye,  as  she  crossed  the 
square;  one  of  the  spots  that  always  made  the  years 
of  her  London  life  show  as  a  continuous  communion 
with  the  rich  brightness  of  the  west-end.  The  houses 
round  about  it  were  part  of  the  darker  colour  of  Lon- 
don, creating  even  in  the  sunlight  the  beloved  familiar 
London  atmosphere  of  dun-coloured  mist  and  grime. 
But  this  house  was  a  brilliant  white,  its  windows 
fringed,  during  the  season,  with  the  gentle  deep  velevt 
pink  of  ivy-leaf  geraniums  and  having,  across  the  lower 
half  of  its  facade,  a  fine  close  trellis  of  green  painted 
wood,  up  which  a  green  creeper  clambered,  neat  and 
sturdy,  with  small  bright  polished  leaves  making  a 
woodland  blur  across  the  diamond  patterned  mesh  of 
white  and  green.  There  were  other  creepers  in  the 
square,  but  they  hung  in  festoons,  easily  shabby,  spoiled 
at  their  brightest  by  the  thought  of  their  stringy  bare 
tendrils  hung  with  shrivelled  leaves.  These  small 
green  leaves  faded  and  dried  and  fell  crisply,  leaving 
a  network  of  clean  twigs  to  gleam  in  the  rain,  and  the 
trellis  bright  green  against  the  white  house-front,  sug- 
gesting summer  all  the  year  round. 

She  went   eagerly  towards  this  permanent  summer 
created  by  wealth,  warmed  by  the  imagined  voice  of 

—284— 


DEADLOCK 

a  power  that  could  transform  all  difficulties,  setting 
them  in  a  beauty  that  lived  by  itself. 

The  little  leaves,  seen  from  the  doorstep,  shone 
like  bright  enamel  in  the  misty  twilight;  but  their 
beautiful  wild  clean-cut  shapes,  so  near,  suddenly 
seemed  helpless,  unable  to  escape,  forced  to  drape  the 
walls,  life-fevered  within,  to  which  their  stems  were 
pinned.  .  .  .  But  there  was  a  coming  in  and  out.  .  .  . 
All  people  in  houses  had  a  coming  in  and  out,  those 
moments  of  coming,  anew,  out  into  endless  space. 
And  everywhere  at  moments,  in  houses,  was  the  sense 
of  the  life  of  the  whole  world  flowing  in.  Even 
Jewish  houses  were  porous  to  the  life  of  the  world, 
and  to  have  a  house,  however  strangely  shaped  one's 
life,  would  be  to  have  a  vantage  point  for  breathing 
in  the  life  of  the  world.  .  .  .  She  stood  in  a  lull, 
reprieved,  her  endlessly  revolving  problem  left  behind, 
the  future  in  abeyance,  perhaps  to  be  shown  her  by 
the  woman  waiting  within,  set  in  surroundings  that 
now  called  to  her  jubilantly,  proclaiming  themselves 
to  be  the  only  object  of  her  visit.  For  a  moment  she 
found  herself  back  in  her  old  sense  of  the  marvel  of 
existence,  gazing  at  the  miraculous  spectacle  of  people 
and  things,  existing;  herself,  however  perplexed  and 
resourceless,  within  it,  everything  sinking  into  insig- 
nificance beside  the  fact  of  being  alive,  having  lived 
on  to  another  moment  of  unexplainable  glorious  hap- 
piness. Light-heartedly  she  rang  the  bell.  The  small 
movement  of  her  lifted  hand  was  supported,  a  per- 
mitted part  of  the  whole  tremendous  panorama;  and  in 
that  whole  she  was  England,  a  link  in  the  world-wide 
being  of  England  and  English  life.  The  bell,  grind- 
ing out  its   summons  within  the  house,   brought  her 

—285— 


DEADLOCK 

back  within  the  limits  of  the  occasion,  but  she  could  not 
drive  away  the  desire  to  go  forward  without  return, 
claiming  welcome  and  acceptance,  in  a  life  permanently- 
set  in  beauty. 

The  door  flew  open  revealing  a  tall  resentfully 
handsome  butler  past  whom  she  went  confidently 
announcing  her  appointment,  into  an  immense  hall, 
its  distances  leading  in  every  direction  to  doors, 
suggesting  a  variety  of  interiors  beyond  her  experience. 
She  was  left  standing.  Some  one  who  had  come  up  the 
steps  as  the  door  opened,  was  being  swiftly  conveyed, 
a  short  squat  polished  wealthy  old  English  Jew  with 
curly  grey  hair  and  an  eager  busy  plunging  gait,  across 
the  hall  to  the  centremost  door.  It  opened  on  a 
murmur  of  voices  and  the  light  from  within  fell  upon 
a  table  just  outside,  its  surface  crowded  with  gleaming 
top-hats.  Some  kind  of  men's  meeting  was  in  progress. 
The  woman  was  not  in  it.  .  .  .  Had  she  anticipated, 
before  she  married,  what  it  would  be,  however  she 
might  fortify  herself  with  scorn,  to  breathe  always 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Jewish  religious  and  social 
oblivion  of  women?  Had  she  had  any  experience  of 
Jewesses,  their  sultry  conscious  femineity,  their 
dreadful  acceptance  of  being  admitted  to  synagogue 
on  sufference,  crowded  away  upstairs  in  a  stuffy 
gallery,  while  the  men  downstairs,  bathed  in  light, 
draped  in  the  symbolic  shawl,  thanked  God  aloud  for 
making  them  men  and  not  women?  Had  she  thought 
what  it  must  be  to  have  always  at  her  side  a  Jewish 
consciousness,  unconscious  of  her  actuality,  believing 
in  its  own  positive  existence,  seeing  her  as  human  only 
in  her  consecration  to  relationships? 

The    returning    butler   ushered    her    unannounced 
—286— 


DEADLOCK 

through  a  doorway  near  at  hand  into  a  room  that 
spread  dimly  about  her  in  a  twilight  deepened  by  a 
single  core  of  rosy  light  at  the  centre  of  the  expanse. 
Through  a  high  curtain-draped  archway  she  caught 
a  glimpse,  as  she  came  forward,  of  a  further  vastness, 
shadowy  in  undisturbed  twilight. 

Mrs.  Bergstein  had  risen  to  meet  her,  her  head 
obscured  in  the  gloom  above  the  lamplight,  so  that 
only  her  gown  met  Miriam's  first  sally  of  investiga- 
tion; a  refined  middle-class  gown  of  thin  dull  black 
whose  elbow  sleeves  and  little  vee  neck  were  softened 
at  the  edge  with  a  ruche  of  tulle ;  the  party  dress  of 
a  middle-aged  spinster  schoolmistress.  Miriam  braced 
herself  in  vain  against  its  seductions;  it  called  to 
her  so  powerfully  to  come  forth  and  rejoice.  She 
revelled  off,  licensed  and  permitted,  the  free  deputy 
of  this  chained  presence,  amongst  the  enchantments 
of  the  great  house;  the  joy  of  her  escapade  leaping 
bright  against  the  dark  certainty  that  there  was  no 
help  awaiting  her.  It  was  no  longer  to  be  feared  that 
an  unscrupulous,  successful,  brightly  cajoling  woman 
would  persuade  her  that  her  problem  did  not  exist; 
but  neither  from  this  woman  to  whom  the  fact  of  life 
as  a  thing  in  itself  never  had  time  to  appear,  could 
she  hope  for  support  in  her  own  belief  in  the  unsound- 
ness of  compromise. 

Mrs.  Bergstein  bowed,  murmured  a  greeting  and 
indicated  a  httle  settee  near  the  low  chair  into  which 
she  immediately  subsided,  her  face  still  in  shadow,  the 
shape  of  her  coiffure  so  much  in  keeping  with  the  dress 
that  Miriam  could  hardly  refrain  from  departing  then 
and  there.  She  sat  down,  a  schoolgirl  waiting  for 
judgment  against  which  she  was  armed  in  advance, 

—287— 


DEADLOCK 

and    yet    helpless    through    her    unenvious,    scornful 
admiration. 

"I  was  much  interested  by  your  letter,"  said  Mrs. 
Bergstein. 

The  interview  was  at  an  end.  There  was  no 
opening  in  the  smooth  close  surface  represented  by 
the  voice,  through  which  questions  could  be  driven 
home.  She  was  smitten  into  silence  where  the  sound 
of  the  voice  echoed  and  re-echoed,  whilst  she  fumbled 
for  a  suitable  phrase,  clinging  to  the  memory  of  the 
statement,  still  somewhere,  which  she  had  come,  so 
desperately,  to  hear  and  carry  away  and  set  down, 
a  ray  of  light  in  the  darkness  of  her  revolving  thoughts. 
A  numb  forgetfulness  assailed  her,  threatening  the 
disaster  of  irrelevance  of  speech  or  behaviour  coming 
from  the  tides  of  expression  she  felt  beating  below  it. 
She  forced  a  murmured  response  from  her  lips,  and 
the  tumult  was  stilled  to  an  echo  that  flung  itself  to 
and  fro  within,  answering  the  echo  of  the  woman's 
voice  on  the  air.  She  had  caught  hold  and  contributed. 
It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  other  to  go  on  and  confirm 
what  she  had  revealed.   .   .   . 

"Music  is  so  beautiful — so  elevating.^'  "That 
depends  upon  the  music."  Never  said.  Kept  treach- 
erously back  for  the  sake  of  things  that  might  be  lost 
in  a  clashing  of  opinions  .  .  .  the  things  they 
never  thought  of  In  exercising  their  benevolence,  and 
demanding  In  return  acceptance  of  their  views  .  .  . 
the  light  of  a  whole  world  condensed  in  the  bright  old 
town,  the  sweet  chiming  sound  of  It,  coming  in  at  the 
windows,  restoring  childhood,  the  expanses  of  leisure 
made  by  their  small  hard  circle,  a  world  of  thoughtless 
Ideas,  turning  a  short  week-end  into  a  life,  lived  before, 

—288— 


DEADLOCK 

familiar,    building    out    in    the    nerves    a    glorious 
vitality.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  same  voice,  the  English  lady's  voice, 
bringing  all  Christendom  about  her,  all  the  traditions 
within  which,  so  lately,  she  had  felt  herself  committed 
steadfastly  to  tread.  But  there  was  something  left 
out  of  it,  a  warmth  was  missing,  it  had  not  in  it  the 
glow  that  was  in  those  other  women's  voices,  of  kindli- 
ness towards  the  generous  things  they  had  secretly, 
willingly  renounced.  It  had,  instead,  something  that 
was  like  a  cold  clean  blade  thrusting  into  an  intelligible 
future,  something  inexorable,  founded  not  upon  a  fixed 
ideas,  but  upon  ideas,  single  and  cold.  This  woman 
would  not  make  concessions;  she  would  always  stand, 
uncompromisingly,  in  face  of  every  one,  men  and 
women,  for  the  same  things,  clear  cut,  delicate  and 
narrowly  determining  as  her  voice. 

"You  are  considering  the  possibility  of  embracing 
the  Jewish  faith?" 

"Well,  wo/^  said  Miriam  startled  into  briskness 
by  the  too  quickly  developing  accumulation  of  speech. 
"I  heard  that  you  had  done  so;  and  wondered,  how  it 
was  possible,  for  an  Englishwoman." 

"You  are  a  Christian?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  Anglican 
Church." 

"Much  depends  upon  the  standpoint  from  which 
one  approaches  the  very  definite  and  simple  creed  of 
Judaism.  I  myself  was  a  Unitarian,  and  therefore 
able  to  take  the  step  without  making  a  break  with 
my  earlier  convictions." 

"I  see,"  said  Miriam  coldly.  Fate  had  deceived 
her,    holding    in    reserve    the    trick    of    this    simple 

—289— 


DEADLOCK 

explanation.  She  gazed  at  the  seated  figure.  The 
glow  of  her  surroundings  was  quenched  by  the  chill 
of  a  perpetually  active  reason.  .  .  .  Science,  ethics, 
withering  commonsense  playing  over  everything  in 
life,  making  a  harsh  bareness  everywhere,  seeing 
nothing  alive  but  the  cold  processes  of  the  human 
mind;  having  Tennyson  read  at  services  because  poetry 
was  one  of  the  superior  things  produced  by  humanity. 
.  .  .  She  wondered  whether  this  woman,  so  exactly 
prepared  to  meet  a  Jewish  reform  movement,  had  been 
helplessly  born  into  Unitarianism,  or  had  taken  it  up 
as  she  herself  had  nearly  done. 

"Much  of  course  depends  upon  the  synagogue 
through  which  one  is  admitted."  Ah;  she  had  felt 
the  impossibilities.  She  had  compromised  and  was 
excusing  her  compromise. 

"Of  course  I  have  heard  of  the  reform  movement." 
.  .  .  The  silence  quivered  with  the  assertion  that 
the  reformers  were  as  much  cut  off  from  Judaism  as 
Unitarianism  from  Anglican  Christianity.  To  enter 
a  synagogue  that  made  special  arrangements  for  the 
recognition  of  women  was  to  admit  that  women  were 
dependent  on  recognition.  The  silence  admitted  the 
dilemma.  Mrs.  Bergstein  had  passed  through  these 
thoughts,  suffering?  Though  she  had  found  a  way 
through,  followifig  her  cold  iclear  reason,  she  still 
suffered? 

"I  think  I  should  find  it  impossible  to  associate  with 
Jewish  women." 

t'TJiat  is  a  point  you  must  consider  very  carefully 
indeed."  The  room  leapt  into  glowing  reality.  They 
were  at  one;  Englishwomen  with  a  common  incom- 
municable  sense.     Outcasts.   .   .   .     Far  away,  within 

— 290 — 


DEADLOCK 

the  warm  magic  circle  of  English  life,  sounded  the 
careless  easy  slipshod  voices  of  Englishmen,  she  saw 
their  averted  talking  forms,  aware  in  every  line,  and 
protective,  of  something  that  Englishwomen  held  in 
their  hands. 

"Don't  you  find,"  she  began  breathlessly,  but  calm 
even  tones  drove  across  her  eagerness:  "What  is  your 
fiance's  attitude  towards  religion?" 

"He  is  not  exactly  religious  and  not  fully  in 
sympathy  with  the  reform  movement  because  he  is  a 
Zionist  and  thinks  that  the  old  ritual  is  the  only  link 
between  the  persecuted  Jews  and  those  who  are  better 
placed;  that  it  would  be  treachery  to  break  with  it  as 
long  as  any  are  persecuted.  .  .  .  Nevertheless, 
he  is  willing  to  renounce  his  Judaism." 

The  Queen,  who  is  religious,  puts  love  before 
religion,  for  woman.  Her  Protestantism.  He  for 
God  only,  she  for  God  in  him,  and  able  to  change  her 
creed  when  she  marries.  A  Catholic  couldn't.  And 
she  would  call  Catholics  idolators.  She  is  an  idolator; 
of  men. 

Mrs.  Bergstein  was  amazed  at  his  willingness. 
Envious.  ...  /  am  a  Jew,  a  "head"  man  incapable 
of  "love.*'  ...  It  is  your  eyes.  I  must  see  them 
always.  ...  /  know  now  what  is  meant  by  love. 
...  /  am  even  willing  to  renounce  my  Judaism.  .  .  . 
Michael  to  think  and  say  that.  I  am  crowned,  for 
life  by  a  sacrifice  I  cannot  accept.  He  must  keep  his 
Judaism.  .  .  .  "You  must  marry  me".  .  .  .  The 
discovery,  flowing  through  the  grey  noisy  street,  of  the 
secret  of  the  "mastery"  idea;  that  women  can  only  be 
sure  that  a  man  is  sure  when 

"There  is  then  no  common  religious  feeling  between 
you?" 

— 291 — 


DEADLOCK 

She  had  moved.  The  light  fell  upon  her.  She  was 
about  forty.  She  had  come  forth,  so  late,  from  the 
secret  numbness  of  her  successful  Independent  life,  and 
had  not  found  what  she  came  to  seek.  She  was  still 
alone  in  her  circling  day.  At  the  period  of  evening 
dress  she  put  on  a  heavy  gold  bracelet,  ugly,  a  heavy 
ugly  shape.  Her  face  was  pinched  and  drawn;  before 
her  lay  the  ordeal  of  belated  motherhood.  Vulgarly 
violating  her  refined  endurance  had  come  this  incident. 
Dignified  condemnation  spoke  from  her  averted  eyes. 
iShe  had  said  her  say  and  was  desiring  that  there  should 
be  no  further  waste  of  time. 

Miriam  made  no  sound.  In  the  stillness  that 
followed  the  blow  she  faced  the  horrible  summary, 
stricken  to  her  feet,  her  strength  ebbing  with  her 
thoughts  into  the  gathering  swirling  darkness.  She 
waited  for  a  moment.  But  Mrs.  Bergstein  made  no 
sign.  Imponderable,  conscious  only  of  the  weight  of 
her  body  about  her  holding  her  to  the  ground  beneath 
her  feet,  she  went  away  from  the  room  and  the  house. 
In  the  lamplit  darkness  her  feet  carried  her  joyously 
forward  into  the  freshness  of  the  tree-filled  air.  The 
large  square,  lying  between  her  and  the  street  where  he 
was  waiting,  seemed  an  Immensity.  She  recovered 
within  it  the  strange  unfailing  freedom  of  solitude  in 
the  sounding  spaces  of  London  and  hurried  on  to  be 
by  his  side  generally  expressive  of  her  rejoicing.  The 
world's  condemnation  was  out  of  sight,  behind  her. 
But  he  would  ask,  and  whatever  she  said,  the  whole 
problem  would  be  there  afresh,  Insoluble.  He  would 
never  see  that  It  had  been  confirmed,  never  admit  any- 
thing contemptible  In  their  association.  ...  It  was 
because  there  was  no  contempt  In  him  that  she  was 

— 292 — 


DEADLOCK 

hurrying.  But  alone  again  with  him,  the  troubled 
darkness  behind  her  would  return  with  its  maddening 
influence.  She  was  fleeing  from  it  only  towards  its 
darkest  centre. 


THE  END 


^293— 


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